


In Waking Dreams

by AParisianShakespearean



Series: Dreams [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Background Relationships, Character Development, Character Study, Complicated Relationships, Couples having problems but working them out, Drama & Romance, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Lost Love, Lyrium Withdrawal, Mages and Templars, Multi, Mutual Pining, Past Relationship(s), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, blossoming relationships, perseverance, self doubt, the course of true love never did run smooth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-20
Updated: 2018-05-28
Packaged: 2018-11-02 20:03:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 50
Words: 217,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10951740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AParisianShakespearean/pseuds/AParisianShakespearean
Summary: He sees her. Not as the Herald, or as a mage, or as the woman who took the mantle of the Inquisitor. He sees her as he sees the sun after so many years of midnight. He sees her, and he sees the future that he needs to protect.When she sees him, all of him, she sees him as the rose in the garden that lasted through the winter. The one that endured, to become all the more beautiful.A slow burn novelization of Inquisition, focusing on the moments between Inquisitor Lydia Trevelyan and her commander. As the events of Inquisition unfold, so do their own personal struggles, issues, torrid pasts, and feelings for one another. Sprinklings of other characters here and there. Slightly diverges from canon. Rated E for later chapters.





	1. Marked

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To readers new and old: Thank you so, so much from the bottom of my heart, and I also always welcome comments on any chapter. (Seriously. If it's the year 2050, I don't mind. I would welcome it. Please comment!) 
> 
> Once again, thank you!  
> _

Images, flashes. They were all small bits of memories, weaving themselves together.

She dreamed first of the scents of gardenia, jasmine, and roses, the scents of her mother’s garden. She hardly came there in her dreams, if at all, as her mind would often dwell on the melancholic, rather than the joys. This time, out of so many times she entered the fade, seemed to be different. Her mother was there, soft and fair, dark hair pulled away from her face as she kneeled to tend the flowers. There were her loving blue eyes, the same color as her own, looking at her with such tenderness. The garden was her mother’s favorite place, and in her early childhood, they would go there together and clear out the weeds so the flowers could continue to grow.

“We only have a few more weeks before the chill will make them wilt,” her mother said. “We have to enjoy this time while we can.”

Her mother still had the loveliest voice in her dreams. All she wanted was to hear that voice again, in her waking life. But if she could hear it in dreams, well, perhaps that was better than nothing. A few blooms had fallen, and her mother picked it up one of the fallen red roses and adorned it to her daughter’s hair. “The most beautiful things in life will never last forever, my Lydia,” her mother said, “much like our flowers. Still, we should cherish them while we have them.”

Her dream took her elsewhere, weaving her through a different time. She was pressed to her mother’s chest, and she was stroking her hair, soothing her, and whispering that what was inside of her was more powerful than any nightmare. “I love you my darling Lydia.” She said, giving her forehead a gentle kiss. “The strength to overcome is inside of you. All you have to do is find it.”

The strength to overcome…

The tapestry wove itself again, and she was outside, in front of the stables. That man, the one with the deep, gruff voice should not have been touching her mother like that. She was screaming, begging him to take his hands off her. There had to be something she could do. Her mother was hurting, she had to do something. But she was just a little girl, only nine years old. But her mother had told her, the strength was inside her. All she had to do was find it. It was burning within her, ready to finally let go…

But that had happened long ago. It had been years since she first discovered she was a mage, and even longer since she sat with her mother in the garden of her home. She was dreaming, or at the very least she was still in that place between waking life and dream life, and she didn’t know where she was currently, or what even brought her there. There had to have been something else, all she had to do was tap into the recesses of her mind…

The conclave! Of course! It was coming back to her, bit by bit. She had volunteered to go to the conclave, in place of Willa. If the conclave worked, there would be no more paranoia, no more waiting for the next attack. The memory was becoming fuzzier, but there were voices inside, something about a sacrifice. The voices were sinister, unnerving. But there was something before that. Arms around her, a voice telling her not to go inside. _You can stay with me_. But she went in anyway, and now…

Where was he?

 

* * *

 

“Commander!”

Cullen turned away from the chancellor to the approaching hooded figure in the distance: Leliana. While he was out in the field with his men, she and Cassandra remained near Solas and the prisoner at Haven, waiting for him to wake.

Someone was responsible for the conclave’s destruction. He would answer.

As Leliana neared Cullen tried his best to shut out Roderick’s incessant litany, meeting Leliana halfway. “What’s the status?” he asked the bard.

“The prisoner is awake,” Leliana said, barely needing any time to catch her breath. “She can’t explain how she got the mark, or what happened at the conclave.”

“She?” Cullen repeated, shocked. In the chaos that erupted near Haven since the conclave was destroyed, all he could think about was capturing the only survivor and placing them in the dungeon until they woke. The simplest thing, their gender, seemed almost irrelevant, and for no particular reason Cullen assumed the prisoner was a man.

“Yes, _she_ , Commander. We know only a few things about her.”

“Such as?”

“She is a mage, for one thing,” Leliana said, and Cullen noted the edge in her voice, even as he involuntarily recoiled. It was the same edge Leliana always used whenever he brought up the subject of mages, magic, templars, or anything of the like.

She continued, “Solas doesn’t believe one mage could be responsible for what happened. He also believes the mark can possibly help seal the rifts that have formed, as well as the breach.”

“She is responsible! She must be chained!”

Roderick had found his way into the conversation, and both Cullen and Leliana scowled at the chancellor. “The mark is growing, and Solas says it is killing her,” Leliana said.

“She must be chained!” Roderick shouted again.

“Use your wits,” Leliana advised. “Perhaps she was an unwilling participant in what happened.”

Cullen considered it. “If she helps seal the breach, then perhaps she isn’t responsible."

Roderick was aghast. “Commander…you—“

“As we sit here debating, we are losing more of our men,” Cullen said, the edge now in his voice. “The rifts need to be stopped, and if we linger on the breach might swallow us whole. As much as I don’t like it, the prisoner is our only option.”

“I agree,” Leliana said. “But we must wait for Cassandra.”

“Our men cannot wait. Something must be done now.”

Leliana's face was grave. “We have little choice."

There was always a choice, action or inaction. Cullen gripped the hilt of his sword. “I must go now,” he said. “Wait here for Cassandra. If they attempt to seal the breach, try to meet them there if you can.”

“You…go now? Commander, you can’t possibly—“

But Cullen was already nearing to the rift. His men were out there fighting, and he had to help them, no matter what happened. It wasn’t the first time he had been put against impossible odds before, and his luck hadn’t run out yet. Of course, back then he still had—

It mattered little. Why should he remain when better men were already giving their lives?

When he darted to the rift he saw Rylen’s surprised face, but too soon afterward more of them were falling from the rift. As he fought Cullen could see who was near, Wallace, Brecker, as well as Rylen, and others whose names he hadn’t yet learned. Rylen dispelled the area, suppressing the magic, yet when Cullen tried, thinking perhaps there was still at least a little lyrium left in him, it became no use. Perhaps there was still some left inside him, yet there wasn’t enough, and he lost precious time as he fruitlessly attempted to use his old abilities. It was like a sword, without thought, once. Yet now even the simplest things winded him. Maker he was covered in sweat, even in the cold mountain air. That never used to happen before, not even in his heavy templar armor under the blazing sun.

He didn’t know how long he was there, but they wouldn’t end. No matter how many demons he and his men managed to defeat more were appearing, each one more horrifying than the last. They were spindly things that hissed and made the ground erupt from under them, and after they managed to defeat one wave, the next would immediately follow. They had to leave, they couldn’t do this anymore…

“Cullen!”

He turned and saw Cassandra in the distance, followed by Varric, and the elven mage Solas. There was another woman with them, one with dark hair that blew untied in the wind as she ran. He barely had time to realize the woman was the prisoner when he heard a shriek. He turned away to Rylen, jutting towards him as a demon lunged for him. In in an instant the thing was knocked down. and it gave Rylen the time he needed to slash it to the ground. They shared a quick exchange of thanks, giving Cullen a moment’s reprieve, even as he heard the fighting continue near him. Adrenaline was gone now, and he could feel how tired he was, how his joints ached. They were to their limit. His heart was pounding, but he couldn’t catch his breath. He knew he had to move. How long had he been fighting? He was drained, falling to his knees, the sword impossibly heavy. He couldn't go on, not like this. not...

“Watch out!”

He could feel the wind knocked out of him before anything else. His sword fell out of his hand, he had to fall to his hands and knees to retrieve it. Once his sword was in his hand again, and his senses back he tried to get up, but his body felt heavy, unbearably so. The figure near him, the one that lunged at him must have sensed his disorientation as she turned around, searching for any more of demons near him. He wanted to get a look at her face, but all he could make of her was the long and dark hair.

He saw it out of his peripherals, coming near her right after she did, and he couldn’t react before the fire erupted from the staff in her hands, searing the thing until it turned into a eerie green ash. She was panting heavily, the adrenaline that shot her toward him evaporating.

“Are you alright?” she huffed.

Cullen met her eyes. It was only for a moment, but as he met those blue eyes for the first time, he felt as though he was looking into the sea. He did not answer her. He couldn't. His his voice had disappeared.

When he did not speak she took his hand, helping him to his feet. Since Leliana mentioned the prisoner's gender he conjured an image of a half crazed, scheming woman with madness in her eyes, yet at that brief moment, were all he could do was gently squeeze her shoulders to show his thanks, he saw only desperation. Desperation, and sadness.

He could not dwell on her any longer as more demons were making their way out of the rift. They simultaneously parted from each other, and for the rest of the fight the party quickly dispatched the few demons that remained. Perhaps Leliana was right, he was forced to admit. He was too weak, but he did it anyway. Somehow, he did it. And somehow, Cullen noted as he surveyed the area, the rift was gone.

“Lady Cassandra,” he said, as she was the one nearest to him. “Was this…the mark?”

Cassandra nodded, catching her breath. “It was the prisoner’s doing.”

“My name isn’t ‘the prisoner.’ It’s Lydia.”

Once again, he was locking eyes with the woman that had saved his life. Their prisoner, and a mage. How strange it was, that things could change so quickly.

“I hope they’re right about you,” he said to her, at last. “We’ve lost a lot of people to get you here.”

“You’re not the only one hoping that.”

He thought he would have laughed if the situation was different, and he had met her anywhere else. “We’ll see soon enough,” he replied.

The path to the temple was clear, but he knew he was going to have to give the party time to make it to the breach. He relayed the plan he made to Cassandra, who nodded. “Maker watch over, for all our sakes.” He said, watching them all clear out. He also glanced at her, one last time. She gazed at her marked hand, clenching it. He remembered what Leliana said: the mark was going to kill her if it didn’t stop growing. There was nothing in the foreseeable future to be done about it.

She didn’t deserve that. No, that battered and weary woman, selfless enough to save him without her knowing him. He couldn’t blame her for not saving him, had she known who he was. He wasn’t entirely sure he was worth saving. But he was here, and he would do what had to be done. Somehow that sensed that Lydia was that type of person as well, someone who would do what was necessary. He found himself hoping, however, that the price she would have to give wouldn’t be her life.

 

* * *

 

“Now! Seal the rift before more get through!”

Lydia couldn’t catch her breath, her heart wanting to thunder out of her chest. She hadn’t ever fought like this before. But Cassandra was shouting at her to end it now. The demons were gone, at least temporarily, and even though she felt as though she was going to burst, and even though she knew if might be the death of her, she had to do it. No one wanted to die, not when only a fraction of their life had been lived. But she was only a bird trapped in a bird cage, as that was what her life at the Circle had always been. And if she didn’t try to use the mark, then surely, everyone would die. Her life wasn’t worth the lives of everyone else's.

The mark connected to the breach. Her body jolted with pain as it closed the rift. She screamed. Her body was splitting in two. It had to be it then, no one should ever feel that sort of pain.

Numbly she was aware of people running toward her. Even in her searing pain their was a twinge of happiness. Maybe it was her mother, waiting for her on the other side.

Falling. There was falling, and someone catching her. Funny, she never imagined death to be like falling, but as it was happening, she realized it made perfect sense. What was death really, then just falling through the fade? She was going to embrace it, so she reached her arms out, hoping her mother would catch her. She always thought her mother would be the one to welcome her. She would take her in her warm arms, stroke her hair like she did when she was a child, and everything would be all right. Everything would be as it should.

But she was in another pair of arms. Familiar, but not her mothers. They seemed stronger, masculine. His.

His image flooded through her vision. Asher’s image. It didn’t register that he was gone, not when Cassandra showed her the breach and explained what had happened. But he was at the conclave when she was there, and in her frenzy she couldn’t put the pieces together. Yet he had made his way to the temple. He had gone, gone before she did. Perhaps he too then, would be there to welcome her. Perhaps wherever she was going, she could love him freely and without shame. No more hiding.

Death wouldn’t be so bad. It would have come anyway, had she not been to the conclave. It would have stalled it, maybe, but it never would have prevented it. Besides, she couldn’t completely regret her decision. She would be able to see Asher, one last time.

She was falling, but no one was coming. There was only voices.

“She’s alive!”

Cassandra? Was that Cassandra, the dark haired warrior? Was she really falling?

“The breach isn’t sealed,” a male’s voice said. “But it is stable, for now, and it has stopped growing.”

“Will she survive?” a different female voice asked.

Hands were on her, holding her hand. “The mark has stopped growing,” the male replied. “But she needs healing. We should take her back.”

“She’s so young. Maker…” Another voice, a male voice, the same one she heard on the field from earlier. Vaguely she recalled pushing an armored form out of the way of an oncoming demon. When she helped him up she got a better look at his features. Golden hair, hazel eyes that held a thankful expression. She never caught his name.

“She should never have had to be caught up in all this.” The man she saved softly said.

“Perhaps none of us should have Cullen,” Cassandra said.

Cullen. That was his name then.

“But we are here." 

Cullen again. A nice name, she thought. 

So, this wasn't to be her death. Not today anyway. But it was at the cost of a mark on her hand, one she didn’t understand. And it also came at the cost of so many lives, including his.

Asher....dear, dear Asher.

He didn’t deserve that fate. No one at the conclave did. She though, had to be alive for some reason.

She felt herself being carried, but unconsciousness claimed her. Her last thought before she drifted off was how she would find the reason she was still alive, and do whatever it was that she could.

It might have been easier to die. Lydia however, was never one who took the easiest path.


	2. An Impact

Since the formal declaration of the Inquisition, the Commander was not pleased.

Realizing Cassandra and Leliana were not going to pay him any more attention than they already had, Chancellor Roderick drew his full attention to Cullen. Standing in front of him as Cullen inspected the quartermaster’s requisition requests, the chancellor prattled on and on about the blasphemous nature of the movement, and continued to denounce the Herald. “You of all people,” he spat. "You cannot seriously believe that Andraste would send a mage whore… of all things!”

“What I believe is irrelevant,” Cullen snapped. “But if you are to remain here, you will not call the Herald that again.”

“Knight Commander, I—“

“And that is not my title any longer. I am now part of the Inquisition. And as long as you remain in Haven, you’d do well to remember who gives you shelter. You have no right to speak to the Herald like that. She stopped the breach from getting any larger. She agreed to stay here and help us. Regardless of what you believe or not, you will not disrespect those who have pledged to this cause.”

Roderick mouthed on and on about going to Val Royeux, threatening to bring forth a petition that would give him cause to take the Herald away.

“I wish you luck with that Chancellor. With no mounts, you’ll be out in the snow for ten minutes before coming back. And if by some miracle you made it all the way to Val Royeux, do you really think they’ll listen to a clerk not important enough to be at the conclave?"

Rage and indignation contorted the chancellor’s face. “You will be judged for this, Knight Commander. Andraste will know what you’ve done.”

“Andraste already knows,” Cullen muttered.

After that, Cullen sat down in his tent, rubbing his temples as if that could relieve him of the headache he’d endured since he woke up from his feverish sleep. He had transformed the tent into his makeshift room, with letters and bits of his personal clothes strewn about. He insisted this would be fine, even though Josephine told him it would be no trouble if he took up his quarters in the chantry. She insisted he could bunk in the same room she herself shared with Cassandra and Leliana, but he declined on the basis of decorum. The real reason was because he didn’t want to burden them with unrestful sleep. Sleep was already difficult for him, yet with everything that it happened, it was now impossible.

For the past two days he and Rylen had been traveling up the mountain, tallying the dead and beginning the process of notifying their families. It wasn’t a pleasant business, and with every loss, his twisting feelings of guilt worsened. Most of their men were volunteers from the surrounding areas, men who had never so much as held a sword in their lives. He was to train them, make sure they had the means to defend themselves. He failed them. They lived such simple lives, like he did in another life. Why did they die when death had yet to allude him? How easy it could have been, for him to be one of the ones that didn’t make it, gone before it even began, and before he could begin again.

Anyone one of those men could have been him, had it not been for her. 

“Cullen, there’s a fight breaking out in front of the chantry!”

The commander groaned, as Rylen came into view. “Whose fighting?” he asked, making his way over, Rylen at his side.

“It’s that other Templar from Starkhaven I told you about, that bastard Nicholls. He was near Thren when a circle mage asked to join. He started yelling at the girl. I tried to tell him to stop, but he won’t listen to anyone.”

Rylen was right, Nicholls had cornered an elven woman in circle robes that had cowered near the chantry door. In the rush, some of the mages nearby must have rushed to the elven mage's aide, while Nicholls held his tirade against her. He shouted the same accusation he had heard some of the few other soldiers murmur when they thought Cullen couldn’t hear: _the mages did it. They killed the divine. The herald is a fraud._

“Please, I’m just a healer!” she said, covering her face so her only discernible feature was her brown hair, pinned away from her face. “I wanted to join the Inquisition to help restore order! Isn’t that what the Inquisition is doing?”

“It was your kind who killed the divine!” Nicholls shouted. 

“What’s all this?” Cullen broke Nicholls away from the girl. “You are not here to throw around accusations. You are here to serve the Inquisition, and if you can't do that, you will be dismissed."

“Apologize?” Nicholls repeated, flabbergasted.

“Yes,” Cullen ordered. “You will apologize. Now!”

It couldn’t have been called an honest apology, but as soon as he did, Nicholls stormed off. Cullen motioned for Rylen to follow him and make sure he had cooled off. “Warn him again that if this repeats, he will be relieved” Cullen mumbled.

Once Rylen was gone, Cullen turned his attention to the group of mages that had gathered. Most of them had also cleared the area, but the one who Nicholls had harassed remained. Cullen didn’t recognize her when she covered her face, but when the girl pried her hands away, he realized he had seen that same face, many times before, her nose buried in a book at the gallows in Kirkwall.

“Knight-Captain…” Sabine stammered. “I didn’t know you would be here...”

“Sabine…” Cullen greeted, shifting his feet and avoiding her gaze, just as she was avoiding his. “That….that is not my title anymore. I am know apart of the Inquisition. I’m so sorry that happened to you, but tensions have been high since the conclave.”

“I was told I should speak to Lady Cassandra about joining the Inquisition. I had nowhere to go, and, well…”

It was the same fate of many mages when the circles fell. When they fell, they had lost their home. "If you want to help, then the Inquisition offers you a place," Cullen said.

“Will that happen again?” she asked, fear making her voice crack. “I can’t be here if something like that happens again. It’ll be like the Circle. I can’t be watched anymore. Do you know how tired I am of that life?”

“That’s not what we do here,” Cullen assured, as gently as he could. “This isn’t the Circle. All we ask is for help restoring order. That’s all we ask. And in return, you will have safety.”

“You were different from all the others,” she said, remembering. “You weren’t cruel, but sometimes you were so cold. I don’t know if…if I can believe you.”

“It’s only fair,” he said simply.

She broke the silence that followed, coming closer to him than she ever dared back in the Circle. “I still want to help,” she said.

“And we will not turn it away,” he replied. “We have many who were wounded, and need a skilled healer. If you would, you can speak to Adan. He has been tending to them. And if you ever feel uncomfortable, or if something like this ever happens again, come and tell me.”

“Even if you’re busy?”

“It doesn’t matter,” he said with a bit of a laugh. “I will not tolerate anyone fighting, or harassing those who wish to help.”

She shyly smiled back. “To Adan, then.”

Cullen watched, making sure Sabine made it to Adan’s hut. He was going to have to talk with his men about this. No more fighting. It was the Inquisition now, and they all belonged to the cause. He could hear the backlash already. _No. You cannot expect us to believe that a mage, of all things, is the Herald of Andraste. We won’t support it. How can you believe yourself Commander? Not you, of all people. Not you._ _You know better than anyone what happens when mages are allowed to run loose._

Instead Cullen leaned against the stone walls of the chantry, indulging himself in a few moments to try to clear his head. It was no use, his aching head left him no relief, and his brows began to perspire. Then, when he placed his hand on the stone walls, it began to tremble. He figured this would happen. It would always get worse before it got better. There would be no relief for him now. Not with his pain, or with the ruckus of the soldiers, or with the pair of eyes that had settled on him.

They always said that mages watched the templars just as closely as the templars watched their charges. From living in the Circle, Cullen agreed with the assessment, and as such, he was attuned when someone was looking at him. He was't surprised he lost this ability. What was surprising, was who was looking at him. 

The Herald.

Lydia Trevelyan had eyes like the sea, and Cullen sensed her thoughts ran just as deep. As she examined him, rather unabashedly, quickly Cullen made sure his gauntlets weren’t in her line of sight. They were the only thing he wore that betrayed his origin. It was also the only part of his armor that he took with him to Ferelden from Kirkwall. Though he couldn’t wear the armor any longer, he took the gauntlets and the crest that was etched upon it, because it had meant something more than fear, once. It wasn’t just that, however. His mother had told him when he was a boy that the only way to move forward was to know where you came from. Wearing the symbol was his reminder of where he came from.

Cullen hadn’t yet read the little information Leliana had dug up about Lydia Trevelyan, but he knew she certainly saw the worst of the order. There wasn’t a mage alive who didn’t, and there was maybe just as many who didn’t know that wasn’t how the Order was supposed to be. She wouldn't be able to see past that. She probably wouldn’t even have saved him, had she known him for who he really was.

She nodded at him. Then she turned her back, and was gone.

 

* * *

   
Lydia wandered around Haven like a woman possessed. She couldn't take this, them thinking she was their Herald, their savior. They didn’t understand. All that happened was that she was marked with a magic no one really understood. They didn’t have any right to stare at her, just like they never had that right in the Circle. All she wanted to do was exist as she had before, even if she existed in place between waking life and the fade. She wanted anything but this life, where she was numb, defeated, weary, and haunted by Asher's face. 

He came to her in dreams, mocking her for being alive when he had died, and she awoke wishing things could go back to what it was. It never made her happy, knowing the rest of her life would be spent at the Circle. Yet as the realization began to creep in, that the Inquisition would be her new future, she wasn’t sure if that would make her happy either. So she wandered through the small epicenter, lost and confused like a wounded deer. She had to cover her hand with a glove, lest the gawking at her mark continue. Though she might as well have left it uncovered. The leather glove did nothing to stop their eyes. Everyone wanted to get a look at her, even if she was nothing extraordinary to look at. In fact, in the two months since she had been in Ostwick, she was worth even less. They always teased her for filling out her Circle robed a little too well, as she never could achieve that petite figure of the others. If only they could see her now. In the weeks she had been on the run and given meager food rations, she had turned practically gaunt. In another life she would have wanted this figure, but she would have done anything to go back to how everything was before. Her complexion also changed. She was usually darker, but now she turned sickly pale. Olive tanned skin had gone sallow. And her hair, what she considered her best feature, had turned from a luxuriant dark brown curl into a drab rope that hung like a cord on her shoulder. 

It didn't matter to anyone. They still stared.

“How are you holding up Herald?”

Lydia sighed at Varric, the only person in Haven who looked at her and saw her for the lost and wounded deer that she was. He hadn’t called her “Herald” before, and he noticed how she grimaced at the name. So far she had kept her distaste for the title to herself, but looking at Varric’s earnest face, she confessed how she wished they wouldn’t call her that.

“Looks like you don’t get a choice,” he sadly replied.

“Seems that there hardly ever is.”

“Maybe.”

She ran her hair through her long hair, not realizing how tangled she had let it become. “Everyone expects me to be something I’m not,” she said eventually. Especially Cullen. When she ran into the Commander by the gates, he looked at her with so much wonder, and even fear. 

“How do you know you can’t be what they want?”

She raised her eyebrows. “Have you looked at me?”

Varric let out a hardy laugh. “I saw you during that assault on the breach. Anyone who messes with you is in deep shit. Fiery shit.”

She had a talent for fire magic, a talent she kept hidden for most of her life. Yet something had happened as she ran to the breach, and it was as if years and years of keeping her magic hidden had allowed it to fully manifest. “It’s not enough,” she resigned. “I shouldn’t even be here.”

Yet if she didn’t go to the conclave, her friend Willa would have gone in her place. And perhaps Willa would not have made it. Better for her to be were she was, than for something to happen to Willa.

“I know there are things in life you can’t chose.” Varric said, breaking the silence. “But, we chose to act. I didn’t want any of this to happen, but…”

“But you’re here.” Lydia finished.

“I’m here.” Varric replied.

“But why? Cassandra said you were free to go.”

“As much as I want to believe I’m just as selfish as the next person, truthfully I can’t stand by when I know I can help.”

“Commendable attitude.” Lydia commented.

“Well, don’t go telling everyone about it. It can’t be good for my reputation.”

Lydia chuckled, and the two sat in relative silence for a bit as she tended the small fire he made. “Can I ask about Hawke?” Lydia asked after a while. It was the one thing they hadn’t discussed yet, as truthfully Lydia didn’t know how to bring it up. Just as she knew she would always be known as the girl with the marked hand, she sensed Varric was always known as the writer who penned Hawke’s story. Varric didn’t flinch or make any gesture of annoyance when she brought up the subject however, so she decided to continue. “What did she do when her city was falling apart?”

“Haven’t you read my _Tale of the Champion_?” he asked.

“Afraid not,” she admitted. “But the author is right here.”

He conceded to that. “Some people will say that Hawke meddled. But she did what needed to be done,” he said simply.

Lydia never read the book, thinking she didn't want to read about another unhappy mage's life. Her own was enough. Yet even without reading the book, there was nowhere Lydia could go in the circle where the name “Hawke” wasn’t muttered. Even if she never personally read the novel, she knew the basic story. The Ferelden apostate, forced to flee her home to Kirkwall. A refugee, who eventually helped drive the Qunari out of the city, and earning the title as the Champion in the process. Later on, she was at the center of the mage and templar conflict, igniting the rebellion. There were even some juicier bits and pieces she had gathered from the gossiping templars and mages, further illuminating the story. In the midst of Kirkwall’s chaos was her own relationship with Anders, the apostate who ended up being the one that destroyed the chantry. One of the templars in Ostwick, Nilen was his name, suspected that Hawke and Anders planned it from the beginning. Others weren’t so sure, but believed that the Knight Commander was out of line for invoking the Rite of Annulment, and Hawke was right to stand up to Meredith.

Lydia gave that rough overview to Varric, who laughed and laughed. “That’s what people thing? They really think that Hawke wanted the chantry to explode?”

“Some,” she said. “But Nilen was always a prat.”

“Ah, if only they knew her.”

“But you did,” Lydia pointed out. “And what do you think she would do, if she were here?”

“Well, she was caught in a mess she didn’t create. But…I don’t think she would have sat around and waited.”

Lydia certainly noticed the lack of subtlety. As it was, she realized she was tired of sitting and aimless wandering. She had grown accustomed to moving around after the Circle fell, it had almost become part of her blood, just as her magic was a part of her blood. Either Cassandra was going to come find her when she was needed, or Lydia could go find Cassandra and demand to be needed.

She glanced at Varric. "Point taken," she replied, and got up and headed back to the chantry.

 

* * *

 

Cullen glanced at Cassandra’s report. He had thought that the Herald would speak to Mother Giselle, help Cassandra set more Inquisition camps, and then be back in a week. Yet two weeks had passed with the small party in the Hinterlands, and from what Cullen could read in the war room with Leliana and Josephine, they had stayed primarily to help the refugees. Still, he expected only a few extra days, not two whole weeks. “Cassandra has allowed the Herald to make many decisions, it seems,” he noted.

“Is that a problem?” Leliana asked testily.

He set the report down. “The Herald agreed to accompany Cassandra to speak to Mother Giselle. Before they left, Cassandra said she would be the one to find ways to spread word of the Inquisition.”

Leliana huffed. “The herald has closed several, if not all of the rift in the area, and tremendously helped the refugees. She also convinced the horse-master to lend his mounts to us, which I assume will be a great deal of help for you, Commander.”

“After our men built the watchtowers for the refugees. And I worry how Master Dennett’s mounts will fair here, or even if our men will know how to ride them. Most of them have come from simple lives,” Cullen said. It was the same simple life he came from, though he had been lucky enough to learn how to ride when he was a boy.

Leliana didn’t say anything, and Cullen knew she was considering that he was right. On his part, he didn't have to hear it from her about the good the Herald was doing, he already knew. In fact, it was more anyone could have hoped, though not all was well in the Hinterlands yet. While the Herald wrote detailed overviews of how the refugees were fairing, Cassandra wrote of the madness of the rebel mages and templars. Privately, she also corresponded with Cullen about the Herald herself, and how she was fairing. Cassandra wrote of her zeal and willingness to help, yet also spoke of a vulnerability that made her rarely speak as they sat by the fire at night. Those were kept out of the official reports. 

Josephine began speaking of funding, and the conversation drifted from the Hinterlands to other matters. While Josephine worried they would not have the coin to buy raw materials needed for crafting armor for the new recruits, Cullen worried there would not be enough room to house them all. Most of his men were sleeping in pitched tents, as it was. “We’ve received a number of recruits,” he said. “Locals from Haven, mages who—“

“By the way Commander,” Leliana said, stopping him in the middle of his sentence. “I must ask, how are you working with the mages that have gathered?”

He stiffened. “Why do you ask?”

“Has there been any problems?”

Cullen rubbed the back of his neck. It wasn’t the first time she asked how he was holding up with the mages. He said the same thing he had said before. “Whatever we were before, Circle mage, templar, or common soldier, we are now the Inquisition. We must protect our people. I will protect all of our people.”

“Does it bother you, that Cassandra has put the Herald in charge?”

He crossed his arms. “If she was at the conclave, then she must have wanted peace. And she is doing what she can. Why would I have any problem with that?”

Leliana had no reply to that. There was nothing more to discuss, so they adjourned their meeting. The spymaster was always the first to leave, and this time it was no different. Cullen and Josephine usually lingered, with Josephine gathering her paperwork and Cullen observing the map. He noted were they agreed to place a few skilled men. Some were in the Hinterlands, and he had just sent soldiers to the Mire as well. He hoped they could gather minerals for crafting, and herbs for the healers. They needed more elfroot from the Hinterlands, Middleton broke his leg during the assault and there were likely to be a few more broken bones before the week was done. Maker, he wished there was a herb that could lessen his migraines…

“Commander?”

He was so deep in thought, migraine clouding his vision, he didn’t hear Josephine at first. “Are you alright?” she asked.

“A headache, nothing more.”

The ambassador frowned. “You always say that. Have you spoken to a healer? There must be something to ease them.”

Cullen shook his head. He didn’t see a healer, because he knew exactly what they would advise, to go back on it. That was something he couldn't do.

Josephine smiled faintly. She must have been told of his decision then, in case something happened to him and he would need to be replaced. When Cassandra chose him, he never expected something like this to happen. He thought his job would entail rolling in the worst excesses of the mage and templar conflicts. None of them thought they would be were they were. Yet again, no one would have expected the sky to fall open. His position became much more complicated than he could have imagined when the conclave was destroyed. He prayed he would be able to fulfill his duty, and do it in the way that he wanted. For the first time in a long while, he didn’t feel chained anymore. That was worth the headaches, the feverish nightmares. He felt like he could find his own way again.

But he couldn’t deny, that there was a possibility he would not be able to endure this. He prayed it would not come to that.

“It’s cruel, what they put the templars through,” Josephine said.

Cullen nodded. It was all he could do.

Josephine sighed, realizing there was nothing else that could be said. All the same, he appreciated her faint smile, and he appreciated how she never truly judged, only looked forward. “I know a great many people,” she said after a moment. “If you want, I can ask my contacts from the Circle if any of them know of a templar that left the order. Perhaps they know some remedies.”

“I doubt it,” he answered frankly. “I have never knew a templar to successfully leave.”

“Even so, I’ll do some checking. We can’t have our brave Commander suffer.”

“I’m afraid that as long as the nobles here gather to watch the drills, that will be impossible.”

She chuckled. For as brief a moment as it was, it was nice to share a lighthearted moment with someone, even as different as he and Josephine were. How she took delight in entertaining the nobility of Thedas, Cullen would never know. That very day he had to deal with Lord Durelions, while running through the drills with the soldiers. It had been the start of his headache. It wasn’t the endless questions and suggestions Lord Durelions gave, despite the fact Cullen was sure he had never been in an army in his life. Instead, it was the pomp and conceit the nobility had, and the disdain for the common folk. Many of his soldiers never had what Lord Durelions had, and they listened, were humble, and appreciated being apart of the Inquisition. Lord Durelions could learn some humility from them.

Despite his disdain for Durelions and the others however, Cullen understood the importance of having noble allies. The money that they brought in for better equipment was much needed. That still didn’t necessarily mean he could like or enjoy their company. How Josephine was able to charm Lord Durelions and others like him was a mystery he would never grasp. He had no patience, and he didn’t dance around issues and play coy, as the Orlesians often did, as obsessed with the Great Game as they were. He was too practical, too blunt, too Ferelden.

Josephine’s was an important part of the Inquisition. She knew how to act, knew the Game. And as much as he disagreed with her methods, Cullen understood that Leliana’s expertise was also needed. There was no one better to do it than the ‘nightingale’ either. Along with Cassandra, the four of them were vital to the Inquisition. He supposed that Lydia Trevelyan, a mage from the Ostwick Circle of Magi, would become integral in all of this as well.

“Tell me honestly,” Josephine said. “Does it really not bother you that Cassandra has let the Herald make decisions?”

“What do you think of the matter, Josephine?” 

"From what Cassandra has said, she has a real willingness to help. She’ll be very important for us in the next few months. Not just for her mark, but what she represents. She has become the symbol for the Inquisition.”

Her eyes shifted as she spoke. “Yet her being a mage complicates matters,” Cullen said, lowering his voice.

She had to agree to that. “While it’s not an unfamiliar sight, there are many who won’t accept it. Still, as word of her heroism spreads, she will be introduced to nobles and dignitaries, and she was sent to the Circle at such a young age. I’m not sure she’ll know how to handle them.”

“Nobles are sometimes given leeway in the Circle,” Cullen remembered. “Perhaps she will fair well.”

She couldn’t fair any worse than he was, at any rate. He assumed Lady Trevelyan would have learned a long time ago how rank and class carry weight and privilege, and how she could use both to her advantage. From Circle to Circle, that never changed.

“I have written a letter to Bann Trevelyan. He only saw his daughter once since she went to the Circle, about a year ago. It was when his wife passed, you see. She went back to the Circle after that.”

“She went back? Even though it had fallen by that point?”

“Bann Trevelyan didn’t say why, but yes, she did.”

Strained relationship, Cullen thought. He wondered how bad it could have been, for her to return to the place so many regarded as a prison. Or perhaps there was something there that compelled her to stay.

“And now she’s here,” Cullen mused. “Prisoner, now decision maker.”

“Tell me. Truthfully. Does it bother you, Commander?”

The truth was, he was a little bothered, though not for the reasons Leliana and Josephine may have assumed, given his history as a templar. The Herald was young, though her eyes told him that she had seen more than what most people should have seen at that age. She was given a choice to join, yes, but in reality, there was little choice to be had. It was either stay with the Inquisition and the protection it offered, or venture somewhere else and be captured and chained for the Divine’s death. No one ever expects to walk out of the fade, and be placed in such strange circumstances. “Has she been asked if it bothers her?” Cullen wondered.

“I don’t know,” Josephine truthfully replied. “Have you looked at her, when she thinks no one is looking? She seems sad.”

He noticed quite a lot of things about her. He noticed her surprised expression when he reminded Leliana he was a templar, he saw her willingness to do something. And he saw her sadness. “I did notice, actually,” Cullen said, seeing her eyes at that very minute.

“Perhaps with time,” Josephine hoped.

Yes. Perhaps with time, Cullen thought.

 

* * *

 

Lydia wiped the sweat off her brow as she packed away a few more stems of elfroot in her rucksack. She had drifted to Dwarfson’s Pass with Cassandra and Varric, collecting more elfroot for the refugees, while Solas stayed behind to help tend some of the wounded. She was crouched on the ground, her eyelids heavy. In the Circle, life was slow and a day’s worth of living was spread over one, monotonous week. Now, more things were happening in one hour than it did in an entire month during her old life.

The rogue templars and mages had to be dealt with, both sides having gone power mad during the fighting, destroying homes along their wake. Commander Cullen had placed Corporal Vale in the Hinterlands to monitor relief efforts, but he was down to a small brigade of men that he dared not send to deal with the problem, as the few men that remained had to look after the refugees at the crossroads. Lydia volunteered the party to deal with the problem, as well as bring as much relief as they could. It had been more difficult fighting the templars and mages than it had the demons that fell from the breach, as disgusted as Lydia was with both sides. They were not real templars that fought the refugees. They had grown power hungry and ambitious, let their anger consume them. It was the same way for the rogue mages, too blind in their hatred for the Circle and the chantry to understand, or even care about the harm they were causing. Her bravado got the better of her, in the beginning. She remembered what Varric said about her magic, and channeled her magical energy to the templars and mages. But once she saw the first man fall before her, a man that had crumpled to the ground in agony as he burned, she began to withdraw, moving further and further away from the fray. They were people, not demons that she killed. They had their own thoughts, feelings, and emotions. They had their reasons for doing what they did, and perhaps negotiation was possible, and they could be redeemed…

 _You are only protecting those who will walk the King’s Road_ , she told herself. Yet she could still hear their screams.

She preferred the simpler work, work that helped the people and didn’t leave a path of corpses in her wake. At her insistence, the small group found meat and furs for the refugees, and took care of a few simple fetch quests that Cassandra claimed could have been easily done by the refugees themselves now that the roads were safe. But Lydia and her party now had horses, provided by Master Dennett, and since it was easier for them to travel from place to place, Lydia insisted on the few tasks herself, such as delivering the potion to the elven man at the crossroads herself.

Yet the refugees still needed herbs for healing, as did the soldiers stationed at the crossroads. A healer could be found in Redcliffe, but Redcliffe village still did not open their gates for the Inquisition. Why, no one knew. The only thing Lydia did know then, was she was very, very tired.

Despite her best efforts, she tumbled onto the grassy knoll, arms and legs spread on the ground, enjoying the coolness of the grass against her heated and sweaty skin. She removed her jacket to try to get even cooler. It really was a beautiful day. By looking at the sky, above her, Lydia thought that no one would have ever guessed what was happening in the word.

“I’m surprised how much you’ve been taking to the weather,” Varric said, nearing Lydia. “I was in Ostwick once on business during the Summer. It was too damn hot for my taste, but those like hot weather usually prefer to stay in hot weather.”

“I would much rather be cold than hot,” Lydia admitted. “The first enchanter said it was because of my fire magic. She had a theory that mages predisposed to fire magic are naturally hot, as it were.”

“Reminds me of Fenris. Never liked the heat.”

“Fenris?” Lydia repeated.

Varric chuckled. “I forget your one of five people who hasn’t read the _Tale of the Champion_. Fenris was one of Hawke’s…friends.”

“Friends?” The way he said it was interesting, Lydia thought.

“They had their ups and downs,” Varric explained. “Read the book, and you’ll see.”

Reading was an escape, an entrance into another world for Lydia. Or at least, it always had been before. She packed a book in her rucksack to read by campfire, but when she tried, the words swam, her head unable to connect the words into sentences, and the sentences into stories. “It’s hard to think about anything else these days,” Lydia said. “Maybe when things quiet down I can concentrate.”

“Eh, don’t worry about it. Hawke wanted me to write the book just so people would realize she was at the wrong place, wrong time. So that’s your summary for you.”

"Hawke wanted you to write the book?”

"Sure. But people still think she also wanted the chantry to explode."

“So, Hawke didn’t approve of what Anders did?” Lydia asked, recalling the idle gossip she heard some of the Circle girls whisper.

“The war was a long time coming. Anders didn’t start it all by himself. But if she knew, she would have done everything in her power to stop it.”

“Herald!”

Lydia rose from the ground as Cassandra approached. She had a letter in her hand, as well as a strange looking, circular necklace. As she got closer, Lydia knew exactly what she was holding. She had only seen one in her life, her own, but there was no mistaking the encircling red vial.

“A phylactery,” Cassandra said, holding the chain in her hands. “I found it on a dead templar, along with this letter. He meant to use the phylactery to find his lover.”

Lydia took the letter and phylactery. She had never held one in her hand before, didn’t know how to use it, though she assumed it let off some sort of signal when the mage in question was in proximity. There was no need to activate it however, she knew who it belonged to. Ellendra was one of the mages at the crossroads, the mage that had rejected the rebels. She preferred to keep to herself, only helping the refugees when Lydia asked her if she could make any healing poultices for the wounded. When she talked to the mage before, Ellendra seemed moody and sad. She must have been waiting for her lover, and she must have realized he wouldn’t come to her. Still, Lydia wasn’t sure how to tell her. She still didn’t know, even as they made their way back to her.

 Varric and Cassandra were in tow when she began to approach the mage again.“I have done all that I could,” Ellendra said. “You must know though, it has not been easy.”

“I know, and we thank you,” Lydia replied.. “But there is something that we found. Something you need to see.”

Wordlessly, Lydia handed Ellendra the note, as well as her phylactery. Her face was blank as she read through it, and only for a moment did Lydia see the slight twitching of her mouth, and the way her eyes shifted downward. Yet when she spoke, her voice didn’t betray her. It was only her eyes. “I suspect he had died when he did not return to me,” she said evenly.

“I’m so sorry,” Lydia mumbled, knowing it wouldn’t be enough.

“Natural enemies, mages and templars, or so they always say. As if they could put healthy men and women together without anyone getting any ideas. He was my friend, for many years, and my lover for many more. And now…he’s gone.”

Lydia’s insides clenched. During the time she had been at the crossroads, she had almost forgotten who she was before. She had forgotten she was just once Lydia of the Circle. Lydia who like Ellendra, loved a templar.

“I…have…lost people too,” Lydia muttered, biting back the tears that would inevitably fall, if she allowed herself to think of Asher for any longer. “And…I know sympathies are never enough. But you have my condolences.”

Ellendra studied Lydia, not academically, as she had felt before. Instead, the mage studied her as a woman. “They speak of you as if you were nothing but a symbol, or a blasphemer, Herald of Andraste,” Ellendra said. “Yet no one wonders who you were before the conclave. Only that you’re a mage. They think you have no past, other than that. You can’t be someone who has loved.”

“They're wrong,” Lydia stated. “I did. I still do, but they don’t have to know that. They only have to see me here, helping. Let them say what they will.” She didn’t care. Let them talk while she did something. “I will help set it right. Even if I am a mage. You can too.”

“If I wanted to kill people, I would have joined the rebels.”

Lydia could hear Cassandra began to speak, but not a second after, Varric quieted her down. It seemed he wanted her to handle this situation. “I came from the Circle,” Lydia began. “And I didn’t join the rebels either. I believe in the Inquisition.”

Ellendra took a deep breath. “True enough,” she considered. “Perhaps then, the Inquisition wouldn’t be so bad after all.”

Varric spoke highly of Lydia's victory as the sun began to set and the party settled near the lake, though Cassandra and Solas hardly talked at all.  It was what happened every night, and it was always an uncomfortable affair. Solas was always still, lost in his thoughts, while Cassandra tended to her weapons and armor. Meanwhile, Varric silently observed them all, as writers often did. Lydia meanwhile kept to herself, always unsure of what to say. The party wasn't one for conversation, which made it surprising when Cassandra of all people tried her hand at small talk.

Lydia was in the middle of Cassandra and Varric, as Cassandra brought up Kirkwall. “Apparently Sebastian Vael has invaded,” she casually said, as casually as one might have mentioned the brisk chill of the nighttime air.

“I’m sure he’s boring all sorts of people there,” Varric flippantly replied.

She was taken aback. “I thought you would want to know, Kirkwall was your home.”

“So you want to remind me how bad things are in Kirkwall? I know it’s bad already, Seeker.”

“Well yes, but…”

“You don’t need to talk about it. It’s all right.”

Varric left the fire not long after, going to his tent, Solas soon retreating to his. Lydia almost wished she could have been left alone with the reclusive elf, rather than Cassandra. To say they had a bad introduction was an understatement.

The fire was dying, and Cassandra poked at it to rekindle the flames. She did it twice, the second time a little frantically, leading Lydia to ask if something was the matter.

Cassandra shook her head. “I hardly know anymore.”

She kept prodding, but the fire was in it’s last embers. Gently, Lydia lighted it back. 

Cassandra thanked her. "No trouble at all," Lydia assured.

It was getting late. Lydia thought it best to head back to her tent. Before she could get up however, Cassandra stopped her. 

"Is there something wrong?" Lydia asked. 

“Not exactly. It’s just, when you were speaking to the mage earlier, it occurred to me how little I know about you.”  
  
Lydia wasn’t sure what they would say if they knew the full story of her time in the Circle. She supposed she should have been grateful. Maybe Cassandra didn’t have a right to know. It didn’t matter their pasts, the Inquisition was all that mattered. Yet she would be companions with Cassandra and the rest, for the foreseeable future. The Seeker wasn’t cold to Lydia, but she questioned if anyone could get past how Cassandra had tossed her into the snow, demanding she look at the breach. Hesitantly however, Lydia told her history. “I’m from the Free Marches. Ostwick. My father was—is, Bann Trevelyan, but when my powers manifested when I was eight, I was sent to the Circle. I spent the better part of my life there. It was dull, monotonous, but if it was to be the rest of my life, I had to resign myself to that fact. But when the war broke out, things changed, even if Ostwick stayed neutral for most of the war. Some templars and mages broke away, and day by day different things began to occur. The worst instance, we were attacked by a group of rebel mages, of all things. A few months after that, we heard news about the conclave. The first enchanter elected my friend Willa to go, but there were…circumstances.”

“Circumstances?”

Lydia could still see Willla’s distraught face when she confessed to her why she didn’t want to go to the conclave, even if it was a chance for peace. “Willa found out she was pregnant.” Lydia said. “And the father died in one of the attacks. Now, the baby is all she has left of him. Clarence was his name," she added. "So I went to the conclave in place of her. It was my first both ride," she mentioned wistfully. “Odd isn’t it though? I wasn’t even supposed to be there, at the conclave. Not really.”

“It was a brave thing you did,” Cassandra said.

“Dare I ask about your own life?” Lydia broached.

“I’m curious to your motivation,” she replied, a little dryly.

“It’s only an attempt to make things less…awkward.”

Agreeing with a half smile, Cassandra, relayed her story as a Seeker and Right Hand of the Divine, along with Leliana, who was the Left Hand. “Together we extended Justinia’s reach beyond the walls of the chantry,” she explained.

“And you’re Nevarran,” Lydia said.

“Hm. What gave it away?”

“Lots of things,” Lydia admitted. “My father’s family was from Nevarra originally, before they settled in Ostwick.”

Cassandra turned pensive. “Indeed. You are right. Trevelyan is a minor house, however.”

“Not in Ostwick. My father never let us forget that.”

“Are you close with your family?”

There was a flash of her mother’s smiling face, the hint of her jasmine scent. “No,” Lydia replied.

“Josephine contacted Bann Trevelyan, you know.”

A shocked cry escaped from her lips. “You…what?”

“At the time we didn’t know the extent of your…relationship,” Cassandra explained. “Admittedly, he really didn’t say much. But he said you came home when the war broke out, then decided to go back to the Circle.”

“He’s lying,” Lydia said, seething. “He made me leave home when I tried to return. I wouldn’t even have gone back if I hadn’t been told my mother died.”

“Oh...” She blinked. “I’m…I’m sorry.”

Lydia sighed. “It doesn’t matter,” she said, even though it really did. “It wasn’t my home anymore.”

“Was the Circle?”

Not anymore. “Wherever I am is home enough for me.”

“That’s how I feel now,” Cassandra admitted, and Lydia thought that at the very least, they had that in common.

When Lydia asked, Cassandra regaled more of her history. She spoke of her time as a Seeker, and why she chose to leave Nevarra in the first place. When Cassandra mentioned her brother, Lydia was hesitant to ask what happened to him, but when she did, she knew she shouldn’t have pried. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked,” she blabbered.

“It was years ago.”

“But it still doesn’t get better?”

Lydia already knew the answer before she said anything.

“No, it doesn’t," Cassandra said. "I only pray that the Maker will let us see this through. If more lives are lost…”

There must have been a future to be had, even if Lydia couldn’t see it yet. “Whatever I can do to prevent it, I will."

“You have done so much already.”

People were hurt in the crossroads, the roads weren’t safe, and families were torn apart, all while the rebels continued their assaults. How could she just stand by and let it happen? “I did what had to be done,” she answered.

“Many would not have, Lydia.”

It was the first time she had been called Lydia since this all began.


	3. Impressions

Templars were discouraged, and sometimes outright not allowed to have any extracurricular activities outside the order. Certain hobbies, such as drinking then, were done privately. Knight Captain Cullen confiscated many bottles of liquor the recruits had stolen away to the barracks over the years, never once thinking it would be something he wanted or needed. Even when Kirkwall fell apart, he never took to a bottle of liquor. It was odd then, for Cullen, Commander of the forces of the Inquisition, to be at the tavern, having a pint of mead.

It was Rylen who goaded him into going into the tavern, even though Rylen was currently attached to Flissa’s hip. The place was loud and chaotic, filled with idle chatter and laughter. The mead wasn’t bad either, though it was suggested he go easy on how much he drank. He saw many of his men come and go throughout the time he was there, many of them stopping in their tracks at the sight of their Commander over a pint. Whenever that happened he assured them they were off duty until the morning when the drills began. He also saw Sera, the elven girl that the Herald had brought into the Inquisition, pull a chair from under Nicholls. He bit back laughter when he tumbled to the floor, Sera not even bothering to suppress her cackles. Yes, Lydia Trevelyan had done a bit of recruiting, he had garnered from the reports. In addition to Sera and the mage from the Hinterlands, she had also brought in the grand enchanter Vivienne from the Montismard circle. Cullen wished the situation with the templars had gone as well as the other matters had. They needed their power to close the breach for good, he was sure of it. They would be better than seeking the rebel mages, at any rate. From the sound of things the mage rebellion was even more disorganized than the templars.

Cassandra took a seat next to him at his corner table, smirking at him. “You shouldn’t let your men see you here, of all places,” she said.

“Too late,” he replied, taking another sip of mead.

“Yes, too late,” Cassandra motioned for Flissa to bring out a pint for her. Rylen was still attached to her side, though he gave Cullen a nod as he passed by.

Cassandra wasn’t bashful when she drank, taking several large gulps. “What?” She questioned, as Cullen watched her in amusement. “You think a woman can’t drink?”

“A woman may do as she pleases.”

“Good answer.”

Cassandra was usually still and calm, even in battle. It surprised Cullen to see her fidget, though he assumed it was the mead. Val Royeux was trying for her, as she wrote to him her worries about the Lord Seeker. “You and the Herald should rest in Haven for a few days,” Cullen suggested as she drank. “You only just came back, today.”

She nodded. “I agree, though the Herald wants to go to Redcliffe as soon as we can.”

“You don’t think it could be a trap?” He had told Leliana and Josephine something was odd when Leliana’s agents sent word of Fiona’s invitation, though their desire to hear from Fiona and the mage rebellion clouded any suspicions they may have had.

“Perhaps,” Cassandra considered. “But what choices do we have?”

“The templars have abandoned their senses, but they cannot sit idly by while the breach remains.”

“Still, we should at least see what Fiona is doing in Redcliffe.”

He didn’t reply to that, instead drank his mead. “I watched the drills this afternoon,” Cassandra mentioned after Cullen watched a game of Wicked Grace end badly for a few of the recruits.

“Really? I didn’t even see you."

“I know you don’t like it when people hover. I wanted to tell you, I’m very pleased with what you accomplished. Half of them probably didn’t know which end of the sword to grip before you told them.”

Cullen thanked her, smiling. What she said wasn't exactly a lie.

“Are you doing all right?”

It was a code they developed. Cassandra’s voice would drop, and she would ask how he was doing. It was her way of bringing _it_ up, without using the words. He didn’t ever lie with Cassandra, and today was no different. He explained that the pain seemed to be lessening, even without any medicinal herbs. Though his current dull headache reminded him it wasn’t ever going to completely go away, and his nightmares reminded him just as well.

“Are you hurting now?”

He finished the pint. “I can endure it.”

“That’s why I chose you.”

“Perhaps you chose me because I was the only one that agreed,” he lightly teased.

“Well, Varric had spoken about you,” Cassandra said. “I was curious to meet you.”

“You knew everything, yet you still chose me.”

“Because it didn’t matter to me where you faltered. Only that you overcame.”

Those months ago, Cassandra came to him in Kirkwall, standing in the doorway to the office that used to belong to Knight Commander Meredith. She spoke of her plan, the Inquisition, to stop the war and bring peace. She asked him to oversee the Inquisition's military concerns. It was impossible to believe that out of all the people she had come across, he was the one she wanted. She couldn’t have fully considered all of her choices, to come to ask him. He told her so as she stood in the office.

“I have considered,” she replied.

He remembered what he did then. He studied the kit that he had carefully placed on the desk. Maker, he wanted to start anew, more than anything. He could still hear the crying in the streets as he and the others tried to repair the city. He could see the innocent people caught in the fray, in Meredith’s madness. But he was too shattered, to broken to start anew.

“Look at all you have done,” Cassandra had said, reading the fears that were written all over his face. “You have given the Order your blood, your mind, your sanity. It doesn’t have to be that way anymore.”

“I chose this life.”

“And now you can chose another. Consider it, Knight-Commander Cullen.”

She had given him three days to think it over. He spent those two days laying awake at night, though that wasn't a new occurrence. He had always wanted to be a templar, because he knew that templars protected people. Yet the Order he gave his blood to wasn’t that same Order anymore. It hadn't been for ages, and shame flared within when he realized that he did give his blood to that Order.

Perhaps Cassandra was right. He could leave, start a new path. But he had to do it on his terms. He had to do it free of chains.

On the third day, when Cassandra came back and asked him if he would join, he gave her his answer. “There will be one condition to this,” he told her. “I hope you will support it. If I am to do this, I will no longer take lyrium.”

She was a Seeker, she must have known the dangers. He thought she would protest, tell him he was crazy. Yet instead, she gave him her support.

“Watch me,” he asked of her. “If my ability to lead is compromised…”

She had said one final thing about the lyrium that day: “It won’t be.”

So many months ago had led him to where he was, with the Inquisition serving a greater purpose than anyone had thought. He would be there for it, and his part would be greater than he ever thought it would be. Amid everything, as the Inquisition sought to restore order, there was his own battle. It wasn't only his battle either. It was for every templar that wanted to leave the Order, but could never could break the chains of the blue vial. If he could do it, that meant that others could as well. And if that meant enduring occasional headaches, mental drills to keep his mind active, and overcoming the nightmares, then he would see it through.

He informed his family of the decision in a quick letter before leaving Kirkwall. He had made himself forget in those years, how much he missed them. He had told himself he would write to them more, now that he had begun anew. Yet whenever he tried, he remembered who he was back then. Who he still was, though he tried to deny it. But if he could not be there, could not even so much as speak to them, then he would do everything in his power to stop the breach.

“Lady Trevelyan is…interesting,” Cassandra mentioned, breaking his thoughts once again.

“You say ‘interesting’ as if it were a bad thing,” he noticed.

“On the contrary, she has done a lot of good, and she has been encouraging everyone to help.”

He thought of the different shades of her blue eyes. Concern during the assault, wide eyed glances outside of the chantry, and furtive glances in the war room. They were glances he only noticed, because they were the same ones she gave him. “It must have been hard to come here, after living in the Marches for her whole life," Cassandra thought.

“Not to mention having a glowing green mark on her hand of unknown origin, and being informed you’re the last hope Thedas has.”

“I believe her."

It was a surprise, but with that, Cullen decided to tell Cassandra the information he had held onto, the information about what she did the first time they met.

“Lydia saved you?” Cassandra raised her brows. “Well, that does sound like something she would do. In battle, she always watches us to make sure we’re alright.”

“Do you think she would have come to my aide if she knew I used to be a templar?”

Cassandra thought for a moment, which made Cullen think that she was trying to find a way to ease the truth, that she wouldn’t. Finally though, she spoke. “I think so. You’re one of the good ones.”

He doubted that much as he left the tavern. It was late, and he knew he should at least try to sleep that night, instead of aimlessly practicing as he had been previously. He couldn’t allow himself to falter again, and there were still years upon years of lyrium still coursing through his veins. But as he was no longer taking it, his abilities no longer worked as they should. He should have known that before he rushed into battle last time. The lyrium used to make him more alert, more focused. He had to relearn what it was like before the lyrium, training as a boy with the other recruits.

He couldn’t continue his one way sparring match on this night, he had to sleep, even if sleeping never came naturally to him. Even as a boy his thoughts would run a mile a minute, and sometimes he would be up for hours, just thinking before he fell into sleep. There was too much to think about on this night for Cullen to rest easy, as there always was. There was also that missing patrol in the Storm Coast, though Leliana had said earlier that the Herald planned on finding them soon. There were rifts everywhere that needed to be closed, he had to find a way to contain them. South Reach was well, or at least that's what Leliana's scouts said, and he prayed for his family to remain safe. 

“Oh!”

Cullen stopped, hearing a cry of surprise. There was no one outside the gates of Haven, or so he thought initially. When he turned his head toward the stables, he saw that the Herald was outside. She couldn’t see him, and he kept his distance so not to startle her. He watched as she looked up to the sky, holding her palms out to catch the snow. Her eyes were widened, her mouth settling to a large grin. He had never seen anyone more entranced with something as mundane as this before.

It dawned on him. She came from Ostwick, by the sea. This was the first snowfall since before the conclave, and if she lived in the Circle for most of her life, she likely had never seen it before. 

She had such a childlike wonder as she peered at the sky. And when she began to girlishly spin herself around in a whimsy happiness, Cullen found it endearing, in it’s own simple way. Snow may have been mundane to him, but he looked at it from her point of view, then it really was rather extraordinary.

She stopped suddenly, making another surprised cry.

Maker's breath. She saw him.

Cullen had no idea to salvage this as he stood there, dumbfounded. “What all did you see?” she asked, calling out to him.

“Not much,” he fibbed. “I was just…making my way back to my tent.”

“Ugh…right.”

He was surprised when she began to walk near him. The moon and stars better accentuated her features, much better than the dim lighting of the chantry ever did. Somewhere, Cullen saw a flash of recognition. From where, or when, he could not place. By all right that shouldn’t have even been possible. He had never seen anyone else that looked quite like her before.

Well, perhaps that wasn’t exactly true. He was sure he had seen faces like hers before, only there was a glint in her blue eyes, a slight upward flex of brow that didn’t align them or put them in symmetry, and shaping of the lips that may have set it apart from other conventionally attractive faces. She would have been the face an artist would have chosen to use as a model, because there was more to it than the pretty, yet emotionless expressions Cullen saw in the women Rylen spent his free time with. There was mystery to it, a sense of longing. 

What did she long for?

Her gaze lingered on him, left brow slightly raised in an expression that he assumed was quizzical amusement. She stood taller than many women, though Cullen himself was rather tall, as the top of her head barely reached the tip of his nose. Despite that, he was beginning to feel rather small, and rather unsettled. Not that she was unsettling in appearance, though he realized she could have been regarded as strange looking by others. Her hair was conventionally attractive, as it was lustrously dark brown, almost black, and full of soft waves that cascaded down her back. It complimented her brown complexion, recently darkened by the sun. Dark eyelashes covered the blue eyes that often studied him. They weren’t pale blue like the sky, but rather a dark blue, like the sea. Beneath them held everything that she experienced.

No, nothing about her appearance unsettled him, not even her eyes. No, what unsettled him was his increasing feeling of vulnerability he felt in her gaze, as if she could see through every part of him.

Maker, he had to say something, the silence was becoming noticeably more awkward. “It’s dangerous to be out here alone,” Cullen finally said, stammering. “We have guards, but—“

“I’ve been in danger since I’ve walked out of the fade. If someone tries to attack me, I think I’ll be able to fair.”

“Well, I know that. I don’t doubt your capabilities, but…”

She sighed deeply. It wasn’t an annoyed sigh, perhaps more of a discouraged one, and his gauntlets, engraved with the Templar insignia, felt very heavy. He had known the reasons behind the furtive looks in the war room. She wasn’t comfortable around him. Had things been different, he would have been in control of her, watching her.

That was behind them, yet the watching eyes remained, albeit different ones. Perhaps that is why she came here in the first place. There was no one there to stare and gawk.

“I’ll go inside now,” the Herald suggested, motioning back to the gate. “I’m sure you would prefer it if all the mages were safely tucked back inside.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Cullen insisted. “I…you…uh. This isn’t the Circle. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

“And I’m sure you don’t want us to go to Redcliffe, do you, Commander?” 

"That’s not—"

“I saw the look you gave Josephine in the chantry. I know you want the templars to close the breach.”

“I—I believe that the templars can suppress the magic that pours from it,” he tried to explain.

“It’s not a guarantee. Magic can reopen the breach.”

He didn’t wish to argue with her, not here, not anywhere. He kept quiet.

She ran her hand through her hair. It was a habit, he realized. “You weren’t there in Val Royeux,” she said. “They’re not the order they once were.”

It was strange. She had a wariness around him, and he presumed it was because of their pasts. Yet she didn’t speak of the order with clear disdain, as other mages had. The order they _once_ were, implying that she felt they at one point, were capable of good.

“They’re not,” he agreed, at last.

“Is that why you left?”

He didn’t expect that, but he told her the truth, all the same. “That, and other things.”

“It doesn’t matter, we’re here now,” she said, heading back to the gate.

Cullen called back to her. He was worried she would ignore him, but she turned back. Perhaps she did so a little hesitantly, but she turned back.

He had one thing to say, the thing he should have said long before. "Thank you."

She stood at the top of the stairs, ready to enter the gates to Haven. Contemplating, before giving him little nod. “You’re welcome.”

It was only when she disappeared behind the gates that Cullen remembered. It was strange that he thought of it now, but something in Lydia Trevelyan had made him remember. It was hazy, but he could recall the illustrations of a dark haired woman with blue eyes, the determination in them clear. Cliodna. 

That's who it was. She reminded him of Cliodna.

She was the woman in the book of stories his mother used to read to them when they were growing up. It was his favorite, the story of Cliodna and her lowlander. He hadn’t seen that book in years. Hadn’t thought about it really, not since he left for Kirkwall. He thought he had grown out of those stories. Yet something in Lydia Trevelyan, whether it was her determination or power, had made him remember.

 

* * *

 

The Commander was a puzzle. 

She heard the idle gossip as she traveled through Haven, but the only things she really knew was what he had already said in the war room. He used to be a templar. And, he was the one she had pushed out of the way during the assault on the breach.

“You seem deep in thought,” Varric observed as Lydia stood by the small fire in the town walls, the night after she ran into Cullen.

“Do I?”

“Is it the mages?” Varric asked. "I’m sure Fiona will explain everything when we get to Redcliffe.”

“It’s not that,” Lydia replied, though meeting Fiona again also weighed on her mind, as well as the missing patrol in the Storm Coast. “It’s…well…I wonder what they all think of me.”

“Leliana rarely lets anyone know what she thinks of them.”

“Not her, specifically,” Lydia said, even if she did wonder what was behind the spymaster’s cool expression. “It’s the Commander.”

“Oh. Curly.”

“Curly?” If anything, the golden hair was somewhere between wavy and straight.

“I met him a long time ago in Kirkwall when he was a templar. His hair isn’t the only thing that’s different.”

Her jaw nearly dropped. “So…he knew Meredith?”

“Knew her? He used to be her knight captain.”

They knew what was going on in Kirkwall at Ostwick. It was sometimes all anyone could talk about. They all spoke of Meredith’s cruelty, even Knight Commander Jovan. Commander Cullen, the very Cullen that served the Inquisition...

Really, he used to be Meredith's Knight Captain?

“He stood against her with us, in the end,” Varric assured, upon noticing her expression. “He’s been…troubled. But he’s not a bad person. No worse than anything I’ve done.”

“I have heard…things about Kirkwall. The cruelty. Why is he here if...?”

“It was more complicated than that.”

She pursed her lip. “How complicated?”

“Well, Kirkwall did have more blood mages running around than most. And I have no doubt Meredith kept things from him. He didn’t have it easy, all the time. He was angry, and frustrated.”

“How so? It’s obvious he chose that life.” He still wore the templar symbol on his gauntlets. Proudly so, Lydia thought. People were always proud of the things that they had chosen for themselves. It was why Asher despised the templars. He didn’t want that life, he was promised to the Order when his mother realized there were too many mouths to feed. He had told her so in one of their rare moments of honest conversation.

Varric looked away for a moment. “It’s not that simple.”

Nothing ever was. “I suppose it matters little,” Lydia said. “Nothing matters except there’s a hole in the sky that needs to be fixed.”

Varric agreed. “Don't be worried about Curly, though,” he assured. “After you fainted trying to close the breach, he was the first one who worried about you. And, he appreciates what you have done. He left the Templars, and isn’t bound to that life anymore. And if he tries anything, Leliana would be on him. Maybe he can’t be forgiven for supporting Meredith until the end, but—”

“But this is the Inquisition,” Lydia finished. She didn’t have to talk with him unless it was necessary, or even like him if that was her prerogative. Just as the Grey Wardens cast aside their pasts to stop the darkspawn, the Inquisition was there for one thing. Yet still, it was a difficult thing to believe that the same man who willingly followed Meredith was also the same one that had no hesitation to defend his men. She saw that firsthand. In the tide of battle, she saw how weak he was, almost to the point of exhaustion. He was toppled over with hardly any strength left in him, and he used the last of his strength to continue to defend. There was no hesitation in her, no need to think when she saw him fall. Running to him was an instinct. He even squeezed her shoulders afterward. And then, after the rift was sealed, he rushed over to help one of limping soldiers.

Yet he was the same Cullen that watched the events of Kirkwall unfold. Perhaps Meredith kept decisions from him. But there was another possibility. Perhaps he saw, but did not allow himself to believe until the end. People were good at not believing what they didn’t want to believe in.

Lydia left Varric, making her way outside the gates. She planned on going to the stables and visiting the horse that Master Dennett had provided for her. Her plans changed when she saw the Commander overseeing the new recruits. The last few times she was in Haven he was dealing with other matters, ruffled and clearly frustrated, especially with Roderick, but he seemed much more at ease with his men. He reminded her of the kings of the old stories, the ones that used to ride off into battle with their men, giving rousing speeches in glistening armor about the glories of war. Those were the kings that saw it as an honor to die right alongside their men, as one of them. He might have been the same. In appearance he was leonine, the furred lining on his mantle and mane of golden blonde hair aided in that. Despite Varric’s name for him however, the hair veered to the wavy side, and certainly not curly. 

She meant to watch the soldiers train, or at least that’s what she told herself. Instead, her eyes drifted towards the stoic commander, patiently instructing one of the men how to properly handle a sword. He didn’t notice her, too engrossed in what he was doing. His eyes were amber in color, and they had a warmth to them, not a coldness she had seen with some of the other templars she had known. Even in Asher’s. Sometimes she would look at him and see such coldness. Never directed at her, but it was always unmistakable when he was with her.

As she thought back, she hadn’t seen a coldness to Commander Cullen yet. Not even when he was with her, and some would have said that he had every right to be cold and short, almost like she had been the previous night.

“That’s a shield!” he said, pointing to one of the recruits. “You have to block with it. Hold it to your chest and downward.”

Lydia continued to watch off to the side. Before she went to the Circle she saw little sparring and fighting with swords and shields, but standing there, she was mesmerized. It was almost like a dance, the way the men clanked their swords against each other, the way their feet shuffled from side to side.

“Would you like to join?”

Cullen had spoken to her. In fact, he even made a bit of a joke. “Hello Commander,” she mustered, not expecting this to happen.

“There’s no need to be so formal all the time. You can call me Cullen, you know.”

“Uh, right.” She didn’t reply, merely stood there with the commander by her side as she dumbly looked at the one of the nearby recruits.

“You could try, you know,” he muttered. “It wouldn’t be a bad idea to learn how to handle a sword.”

“Because it would be better if I was warrior like Cassandra, and not a mage?” She didn’t glance at him after the question was asked, though she could feel him stiffen. It was the wrong thing to say. She needed to heed her own advice: no longer a templar, now part of the Inquisition. “I didn’t mean anything by it,” She insisted quickly. “My father wished the same thing about me.”

“I wasn’t suggesting…you were looking, and I thought…” Nervously he rubbed the base of his neck, looking troubled. Inwardly, she chided herself again. Varric knew him, back when he was a templar. And it was clear he held nothing against him. How easily it could have been for Cullen to be crass and hostile toward her, and not even bother to speak with her.

She had to cut the tension, so she asked him if he oversaw all the training for their men.

“Ser Rylen helps, but yes,” he replied. “We lost a lot of men during the assault on the breach, but since then, a number of locals from Haven and the surrounding areas have joined.”

She had purposely avoided going outside the gates of Haven the day after she woke up, knowing she would see the bodies of the fallen, and the cries of the wounded. Haven barely had an infirmary or place to deal with such matters, so the outside tents became the primary area for the dead and wounded. It took a while, but eventually Cullen and a few others had taken care of it. “How many men were lost?”

“Many men fell by the rifts. Scouts on the mountain path were also lost. It became difficult to keep track, but there had to have been at least fifty. Most likely more.”

Fifty men, and that didn’t even include those lost in the explosion. Lydia clenched her marked hand.

“It’s not your fault. Solas has said as much.”

She didn’t want assurances that it wasn’t her fault. She wanted to know that everything would be fixed. No more needless deaths. She wanted to know that she was doing everything she possibly could, wanted to know she had saved as many as she could.

It wasn’t true though. “I told Cassandra we should charge with the soldiers,” Lydia said, remembering her incredulity when Cassandra asked how they should proceed to the rift that day. Maker, her hand felt as though it was going to split in two. Her body was giving out, and she thought she had to be quick. “If we had taken the mountain path, then I could have saved the scouts.”

Then he might have died, she realized after a beat.

“You couldn’t have known what would happen.”

“I thought the mark was going to kill me sooner, rather than later. I wanted it to be done with as quickly as possible.”

He rubbed his neck. “Either way, I…thank you.”

“You thanked me yesterday,” she reminded.

“Can I do it again?”

The sincerity behind it gave her a small smile. “Of course.”

“And…thank you for what all you have done already. It couldn't have been easy, coming here from another life."

"No," she admitted. "It hasn't been."

He shifted his weight to one leg, not sure if he should look at her or somewhere else. Eventually he must have decided the silence was too awkward, as he asked her about the Circle in Ostwick. 

“We’re probably quite boring, compared to other circles in the Free Marches,” Lydia said. “But yes. It’s…quite different here than it is there.”

“How different?”

She lifted her head to the sky, were a light snow had begun to fall. “Ostwick is by the sea. It’s warmer there. I’ve never seen snow until now. Or mountains, like the ones here.”

“Do you prefer the seaside?”

“They’re both beautiful in their own way," she decided. "But what about you?" she asked. "Why did you come to the Inquisition?” 

“I was recruited into the Inquisition at Kirkwall. I saw first hand the devastation there.”

She knew as much, though she didn't say. “You were there during the uprising?”

He nodded. “Cassandra sought a solution to the chaos. I left the templars when she offered me a position. Now we seem to be facing something far worse.”

“You think the Inquisition is better than the templars?”

He didn’t answer immediately, reaffirming her earlier suspicion that he had in fact, chosen to be a templar. It was never easy to admit something you had chosen and wanted no longer worked, but Cullen answered her. “The chantry lost control of most of the templars. The mage and templar war may still have happened, even had Kirkwall’s chantry not fallen. Still, the devastation was too great, and we’re still recovering from it. We tried to rebuild Kirkwall, but…it was difficult. The Inquisition is now acting were the chantry cannot. I may disagree with were the Order has gone, but I can sympathize with their frustrations.”

“Do you sympathize with the templars we ran into at the Hinterlands? The ones that went power mad?”

There it was again, an accusatory tone. Once again, she was admonishing herself. “I’m not blind to the fact that some mages like to summon demons,” she said calmly, trying to soothe the accusation. “Templars do provide protection from that. And I won’t pretend like some of the mages have gone mad with power. I saw my fair share of them near the Crossroads. But—“

“No,” he stopped. “You are right. Some templars are cruel, treat the mages with distrust when they should be protecting them from the dangers of magic. I know I once treated mages with distrust in the past,” he took a deep breath. “That was unworthy of me. I will try not to do so here.”

“I’m sorry I’m so accusatory,” she said, almost a whisper. “It’s only—“

“No. I stood with the Champion in the end, but I should have seen through Meredith sooner. And considering our pasts…I understand.”

Lydia wondered if it would have been better if he was all business. It certainly would have been easier. And still, there he was, admitting to her what he had done wrong. He wasn’t even asking for her to atone him, all he wanted was to tell her he would do better.

His vulnerability struck her. She couldn’t remember the last time she had seen a templar, or even a man, so blatantly allow it show. Most men she was acquainted with didn’t like showing their vulnerabilities, much less to her.

Lydia gave him another small smile. There passed a small period of time were the two of them said nothing, only shared the same space. It surprised Lydia that the silence wasn’t even awkward or strange now. It was pleasant, to share the same space with him. The lion of the Inquisition. 

Still, she didn’t wish to intrude on anymore of his time. “I shouldn’t bother you any longer,” she said."You must be busy."

“Oh you’re not…”

Once again he brought his hand to his neck. He also began to fidget. “I mean I don’t mind being bothered,” he offered, after several moments. 

A sound came, a sound that surprised her: her own laugh. She hadn’t heard the sound of her own laugh, carefree and unrestrained since before the conclave. In a way, it was almost a relief. She had forgotten she was even capable of laughing. “I’m sorry,” she said when she regained her wits. “I don’t know what came over me. But I really should leave you be before— “

"Commander!”

She had worried how she was going to make her escape, but luckily for her that problem was solved, as one of the scouts was running near him, report in hand. Cullen took the report, and even as Lydia began to walk away, she thought that maybe bothering him again wouldn’t be such a terrible idea.


	4. Incidents

Instead of immediately heading to Redcliffe to meet Fiona, Lydia insisted heading off to the Storm Coast to find the missing patrol instead. No one stopped her, and Cassandra even agreed that was something that should be done first.

Cullen didn’t get a chance to speak with Lydia Trevelyan before she left, which may have been for the best. He wasn’t sure if he could ever look at her again without remembering _I don’t mind being bothered._ Maker, there was no one alive who would ever say anything that inane. What was worse, that wasn’t even the first time he had uttered something like that. Of course, he was eighteen at the time, but he had long ago thought he was done with such foolishness. Such foolishness over a pretty face and welcoming smile.

At the time when he was eighteen though, it wasn’t foolish at all. His life’s ambition had just come true. He took his vows, sat his vigil. The first vial was taken. And yet there she was, sitting the library and reading, noticing him noticing her, and grinning. Then there he was, unable to say anything intelligent in response.

Nothing ever came from it during the year that he knew her in the Circle. Halfway into it, he resigned himself to that fact. He had to tell himself that being near her was enough. He wasn’t right for her. Not when he could hardly speak to her without saying something inane. Not when she was one of his charges.

Then and now, the art of language and conversation failed him Lydia Trevelyan had reminded him of that. At the very least, it had made her laugh. Even if it was at his expense, at least it was something good and lighthearted in the multitude of the bad things that she had gone through.

He didn’t have time to think more of her as he went about his morning. It went about normally with the training, as well as running through the requisitions that had recently been collected. He was in the infirmary checking on a few of his men when one of Leliana’s people came to him, saying that Sister Nightingale wanted a word with him in her tent.

Wondering what Leliana could possibly have to argue with him now, Cullen made his way to her. “Leliana,” he greeted once he was there, feeling very out of place in her domain. “Is something the matter?”

“Not entirely.”

“Entirely?”

She regarded a letter in her hand. “I have news, of sorts. About the Herald. It’s been hard to obtain, as the Ostwick Circle of Magi is very tight lipped. But we were able to learn a few…pieces of information.”

“What kind of information?”

Tonelessly, Leliana began. “There was an incident at the circle before the war broke out, involving Lady Trevelyan.”

In certain corners, “incidents,” was a euphemism for blood magic. But with the Herald, Cullen rationalized it couldn’t have been the so called "incident." Even the most lenient circles punished blood magic with tranquility or death, and she certainly wasn’t tranquil. “What kind of incident?”

“We don’t really know for sure, and any who may have known no longer can be reached in Ostwick, save the first enchanter. She wrote to Josephine and called it a minor incident, nothing that would affect her stay in the Circle.”

It could have been anything from mixing a potion and it exploding, or causing a small fire when she was still learning how to control her magic. Or it could have been something worse. She could have unknowingly aided a blood mage. A similar incident happened in Kinloch Hold in Ferelden, when Cullen was still there. Surely though it couldn’t have been anything too serious, as lax at Ostwick was, certain transgressions could not go unpunished. If the first enchanter truly called the incident a minor one, then Cullen suspected it could be taken as it was.

Despite this, Leliana was concerned. "Josephine fears how this incident will affect her reputation, depending on how widely known it is. But then again, it’s unclear how many other people know. I only wanted to tell you, in case it comes to light again.”

“You worry I won’t trust her, if we find out?”

She gave a slow nod of admission.

He crossed his arms. “Don’t you trust her?”

For once, Leliana was at a loss for words. “Do you?” she eventually countered.

Cullen thought out his reply before responding. “I trust she wants to set things right. She’s done as much as anyone so far, perhaps more.”

“It would be beneficial for us to learn what the incident exactly was, in case rumors need to be quelled…”

“Is that necessary Leliana? She’s not a blood mage, clearly. Cassandra would have known by now, she was trained to find them. I would have known if she was, I was there with her when she was fighting. If this ‘incident’ was any real cause of concern, half of Ostwick would have known, surely.”

“They have a reputation of being very quiet about their affairs.”

“A lesson the Orlesians could learn,” Cullen quipped. “The chantry denounces the Inquisition as we speak, and even so the breach remains. What harm can this incident do?”

During this entire exchange, Leliana had not risen. Now she rose, going through the papers that she had assembled at her desk adjacent from where she was, avoiding him all the while. “She has been pulled from her life before this,” he continued, speaking to her back. “We did not ask her or force her to help us, she wanted to. The least we can do is respect her. And if that means she chooses not to tell us what the incident was, then so be it.”

“I suppose you trust her so much because of what she did?”

Cullen suspected Leliana knew of the incident near the rift, at least she had done him the curtesy of not reminding him of it until now. “Perhaps,” he conceded, rather evenly. “But she saved us all by not allowing the breach go grow any larger. Now I’m sorry Leliana, but I must return to my duties.”

She didn’t stop him on the way out, and she didn’t come to him the rest of the day. He thought of Lydia, and her “incident,” much more than he should have, considering what he told Leliana. He could have resolved to watch her, but retracted that once he realized how unfair that was to her, and how much staring seemed to irritate her. This wasn’t the Circle, he no longer a templar. So many kept their scrutinizing eye on her here already. She didn’t need him to do it too. And if she didn’t want him privy to her private affairs, he certainly wouldn’t ask.

A few days after that, Cullen learned what happened to the patrol. It was in the report they didn't survive, though those responsible would now no longer harm anyone else. Cullen had hoped he wouldn’t have to write anymore letters notifying families that their loved one had passed anytime soon, but he was forced to do just that one afternoon as the recruits clanked their swords outside his tent.

His hand shook as he wrote. Another reminder of the chains. 

He was almost grateful Rylen stuck his head through the flap, informing him someone wanted to see him. Quickly he rose, throwing his coat back on.

“Hello Commander,” Lydia Trevelyan said. “I just wanted to tell you something, really quickly…then I’ll be off. I’m sorry if—“

“No, no, you’re alright,” Cullen stammered. “I just…uh…what did you want to tell me?”

“Well…” she began particularly interested in playing with her long, dark braid. “I wanted to apologize. I am so sorry I couldn’t save the patrol.”

One long moment of an utterly awkward silence passed. He would have said something, but in truth, he had no inkling on what he should say. “It’s not your fault,” he finally managed.

Not expecting this, she garbled, “Well, maybe if we came sooner, they would still be here.”

“You made sure those responsible wouldn’t hurt anyone again."

“Revenge won’t bring them back.”

“We cannot focus on the past, or our losses. We’ll go mad otherwise,” he tried to tell her, but not looking at him, she demanded to know if he even mourned or cared. He took the accusation much harder than he had anything else recently, even Leliana’s indirect insults at his past. He stilled, unsure how to even began explaining to her how Meredith used to tell him he mourned for the dead far too much.

“How can you stand all this death?” she demanded again. “How can you take this so easily?”

“It never becomes easy,” he said, defeated. “I suppose it never will.”

When she didn’t respond, he went back into his tent. His hand still shook when he wrote.

 

* * *

 

Lydia’ circle of acquaintances grew when the Iron Bull was added to the Inquisition. Upon being asked to meet with him by his lieutenant in Haven, Lydia agreed to do just that when they made it to the Storm Coast. She may have been forewarned he was a qunari, but hearing and seeing were two completely different things. He was tall, much taller than Lydia at any rate, and she wasn’t lacking in the height department. Not only that, but his width took up as much space as two Commander Cullens standing side by side.

They had quite the motley crew of companions back at Haven. The qunari captain, the grand enchanter, the not “elfy elf” archer, the fade drifting elven mage, the Dwarven rogue, the seeker, and the fire throwing Herald of Andraste. Before they headed to Redcliffe, Lydia told Cassandra they should take Bull and Sera. She wasn’t sure what Cassandra thought of those two, but out of all her companions, those were the two with the lightest personalities. After what transpired, she thought maybe that was what she needed. Especially since she didn’t know what to expect from her fellow mages.

Finding out the city was taken over by a Tevinter Magister wasn’t something she would have ever expected.

The news didn’t make her any less captivated by the village. When she walked into Redcliffe from the city gates, she breathed in the air, and enjoyed the lush greenery. It was different from Val Royeux, and even though she enjoyed the Orlesian grandeur, there was something quaint about Redcliffe Village that made her gravitate more toward it. It had been years since she could walk through a city, and as she indulged in that simple luxury, she thought for a moment about what it would be like to be anyone else.

Cassandra noticed her dreamy expressions. “Thinking about someone?” She inquired.

“Being normal,” she admitted, though a certain someone did flash through her mind. “Of course that’s impossible now.”

“We need to figure out what has happened first. Come on.”

She went down to the port where he party followed. She planned on exploring the port until Cassandra drew her attention to a ginger-haired figure by the water. Connor Guerrin, she called him.

“Arl Teagan’s nephew," Cassandra explained. "He was behind the siege of Redcliffe ten years ago.”

The boy looked like he was only a little younger than Lydia was. “What do you mean he was behind the siege ten years ago? Isn’t that when the Hero of Ferelden came to help Arl Eamon, or something?”

Lydia was relayed a condensed version of events. When the Hero of Ferelden came to Redcliffe, they ended up helping defend the village against a horde of undead. It was a horde that Connor unwittingly caused. He was a mage, but he was hidden from the Circle at the behest of his mother. She sheltered him and hired an apostate to teach him how to suppress his powers. It all backfired when the apostate poisoned Arl Eamon. That was the part of the story Lydia remembered. The traitor teryn Loghain Mac Tir, in his plot to take over Ferelden, hired a blood mage to poison Arl Eamon so he could drown out his voice and bring people to his side. What she didn’t know was that Connor accidentally made a pact with a demon that ended up raising the dead and killing many of the villagers during this time. It was the unraveling of the worst that could happen to a properly untrained mage, letting a demon in.

She did however, think it was best to hear what he had to say for himself, so she approached Connor, hoping to get his opinion on what was going on in Redcliffe. “You must be Connor. I’m Lydia,” she introduced. “This is Cassandra, Sera, and the Iron Bull.”

“I know who you are. You’re the Herald of Andraste.”

“Perhaps,” she mumbled.

He shuffled his feet, looking to the ground. “Come to chat with the boy who has the blood of Redcliffe on his hands?”

“That wasn’t you Connor, that was the demon,” Lydia responded, and judging by Sera, Cassandra, and Bull’s shiftiness, they didn’t approve of that assessment.

Neither did Connor. “Who let the demon in?” he demanded. “If I didn’t let it in…”

“Listen Connor," she said, "you were young, untrained and had no idea what you were doing probably. I accidentally set fire to one of my father’s dinner guests.” He had it coming, but it proved her point. Not understanding one’s magic was a sure cause for trouble.

“That has been said to me over and over again. There is nothing you can do to help.”

“Then is there anything we can do?”

“You can talk to Fiona. Let her see reason. Tell her that this alliance with Magister Alexius is a bad idea and it must end.”

“Maybe he forced her or something. No one is stupid enough to give a city to a Magister.”

“Looks like she is mate.” Sera sidelined.

“So you don’t approve of this alliance, do you Connor?” Cassandra asked, ignoring Sera.

“How could I? Tevinter represents everything wrong with us. Summoning demons, blood magic. And they tell me that they can help me with my powers. But I never wanted this. I voted against independence.”

“Wait, where’s the arl? Surely having his town be taken over by a magister wasn’t his idea.” Lydia said.

“He went to Denerim to petition the king. I don’t know when he’ll be back.”

“We should assume he won’t be, and we should meet Fiona.” Cassandra suggested.

Lydia agreed. “Yes. Thank you Connor. I promise you, this will be fixed. And,” she lowered her voice. “I also promise being a mage isn’t so bad. I had problems accepting it myself, but there is still good we can do.”

Connor sighed. “Put things back the way they were Herald, then I’ll believe you.”

 

* * *

 

Cullen was with Leliana when she received word that the Herald and the rest of her party would be in Haven soon to discuss what had transpired in Redcliffe. They were bringing in another recruit by the looks of things, a Grey Warden named Blackwall. _Skilled with a sword and shield,_ the Herald wrote. _I think the commander would be glad to know he angles the shield downward, the right way I hear._

Leliana looked at him funny when he laughed at that.

He was on his way to the chantry when he ran into someone he had never seen before. He was a mage, for he carried a staff, and his clothes were so ill suited for the snowy weather that he was holding himself for warmth Though he wasn’t dressed properly, Cullen could tell he wore finery, even as limited as his knowledge on clothes was. The man had tanned skin, with black hair and a mustache. He looked like he didn’t know where to go, so Cullen came up to him.

“Ah! You must be the Commander. I was told you would stand out. I need to speak with you, but may we speak somewhere warmer?”

Cullen did what the man asked and lead him to the chantry. Once they were inside, he didn’t even have to ask before the visitor made his introductions. “Dorian of House Pavus of Minrathous. And you must be Commander Cullen,” he flourished.

Cullen remembered the name. The Herald met him in Redcliffe. “You were the magister that claimed your mentor wants to dispose of the Herald. What are you doing here?”

Dorian held his annoyance well. “I am not a magister. My father is a magister. Just because I am a mage from Tevinter, doesn’t mean I’m a magister. I thought they understood that.”

“Was this a discussion on Tevinter naming? Can you please tell me why you came to Haven?”

“I came, because if your Herald plans on meeting Alexius again, she will need my help.”

A letter was delivered from Redcliffe from Alexius, inviting the Herald back to Redcliffe. Since they had all found out about Redcliffe’s state, tensions were high. Leliana sensed a trap early on, and if Dorian was right and Lydia accepted the invitation, she wouldn’t make it back to Haven alive. “You are his pupil are you not?” Cullen questioned. “Why would you be working against him?”

“Alexius has allied himself with the Venatori, a cult that worships this thing called the Elder One. They want to kill the Herald, which I would imagine is a very bad thing for your Inquisition. Suffice it to say, even if I still care about Alexius, he is clearly needs to be stopped.”

“The arl is petitioning the king to remove the threat, that is not the Inquisition’s job,” Cullen said. “Our priority is to close the breach. Either the templars or mages can do that. If Alexius is so bent on disposing of the Herald, then I’ll inform the others that we need to go to the templars while the king takes care of your Alexius.”

“I don’t think we can wait. The Inquisition can act now. If you command your men to accompany the Herald, Alexius can be taken care of.”

He could lead a charge to the castle to stop the magister, but it would risk too many men. It was the most defensible fortress in Ferelden. The odds of making it out alive were not in his favor. “I don’t see how we can,” Cullen confessed.

“If Alexius is allowed to remain…”

“A hostile power is in my country, removing people from their homes,” Cullen said, exasperated. “If I could help you, I would. Really.”

“What's going on?”

He didn’t see Lydia and Cassandra enter the chantry until they were right by them. When she saw Dorian, her eyes widened in surprise, and Cassandra groaned.

“Ah,” Dorian said. “Pleasure to see you again. I was talking to your Commander. We have to stop Alexius.”

“What have you decided?” Lydia asked Cullen.

The truth was, they hadn’t come to a decision on who to go to for help. Templars or mages, that’s all the world boiled down to. “We need to talk,” he replied. “I’ll send for Leliana and Josephine.”

“Then shall we head to discuss?” Dorian asked.

Cullen suspected telling Dorian he wasn’t allowed to be in the war room with everyone wouldn’t dissuade him, so he followed everyone else to the back room.

 

* * *

 

“Sometimes I wonder boy. What would it be like, if my only worry was who was going to ride me?”

When she really thought about what she said, she realized that wouldn’t be very good at all.

Lydia was in the stables, patting Pepper. Pepper was the horse Master Dennett had first gifted her, dubbed so after his salt and pepper coat. She had taken a liking toward the animal, and he seemed to like her as well, for when the horse-master presented him to her, he stuck his teeth right into her shoulder. “It means he likes you!” Dennett exclaimed. “Looks like you’ve made a friend for life. He’ll carry you through anything.”

She was spending the evening by herself, with only Pepper for company. It was the evening before they were to head to Redcliffe. Hopefully, once and for all, they would be able to get the mages on their side. There would be Dorian, because he knew the magister. Bull because he fought Tevinter mages, and Cassandra, because she was one of the Inquisition’s leaders. And of course, Lydia would go as well. She was the one the magister asked for after all.

“I made the decision,” Lydia mumbled to Pepper. “I hope it doesn’t kill me.”

She knew if Asher was near, he would have said something about how brash she was being for willingly going into danger. He would have told her she wasn’t being wise. One of the last things he told was tell her it was dangerous to go into the conclave at that moment. She should wait.

If only he knew how right he was.

 _Brash, brave little kitten,_ he would have called her. _Little kitten walking into a den of lions._

Asher’s pet name for her was quite apt. She really was just a kitten. Cullen clearly thought so, the way he looked at her. At least Pepper looked at her with nonjudgmental eyes. “I shouldn’t act like this. Willa lost the man she loved. So many others have lost someone. I have to fight or all of them," she said, burying her head in Pepper's mane.

“Are you all right?”

Lydia gasped, moving away from Pepper at the sound of the voice from behind her. It was the commander, standing at the doorway. In his armor he looked completely out of place in the stables.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said, lowering his voice.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Lydia tried to gather herself.

“I heard voices, was there someone else here?”

She bit her lip. “No, I was…talking to Pep—the horse.”

“Oh, you mean Pepper.”" He regarded the horse before rubbing the back of his neck. "Cassandra tells me you are a very capable rider," he said. 

“Haven’t you done your research on House Trevelyan?” Lydia asked, a touch playful. “Our crest is a horse. There are no better riders in all the Free Marches.” While she may have been boasting, the reality was the fact that Lydia hadn’t ridden in years. The last time she was on a horse, she was around eight and she trotted a pony named Buttercup. It was one instance where she was proud to call herself a Trevelyan, as it was often said that for Trevelyans, riding was as easy as breathing. It hadn’t taken her very long until she got the hang of it again, even though it was a bit different now. “I suppose something good came from this,” Lydia mused. “I always wanted a pet of some sort. Thought I would have a dog at some point rather than a horse again,but I've come to really like Pepper."

“I always wanted a dog.”

That was surprising, to say the least, or at least it was to Lydia. His lopsided smirk was also surprising. “There was a mabari breeder where I used to live before I joined the templars,” he remembered. “I wanted to get one, but my family couldn’t afford it.”

She blinked. “Wait. You’re Ferelden?”

“Whatever gave it away?”

“Ferelden. Mabari. Isn’t it obvious?”

 “I suppose it is.” 

She was surprised she didn’t see the Ferelden in him sooner. She took him for a pure Kirkwaller, given his past, but from his voice and his overall demeanor, it was fairly obvious. “My mother was from Ferelden,” she remarked. “When I was little, she used to tell me that she had a mabari when she was younger. She wanted to get another when she moved to the Free Marches, but we never did. But maybe you can get one when this is all over,” she suggested.

“I don’t know, all I can think of now is our survival.”

“Understandable.”

He held her gaze, and for an instant, her eyes traveled downward. For the first time, she really looked at him. He seemed older than what he probably was. Many templars did, but many didn’t want to continue to endure. Cullen was one who endured, and the scar on his lip, the one she hadn’t really thought of before, was a testament to that.

Eventually, he broke the silence. “May I ask you something?”

“You may.”

“Why are you so eager to get the rebel mages?”

She should have expected this question from him of all people, though she wasn’t sure if she wanted to confess it. The answer was complicated, but he did ask, and she at least owed him an explanation. “It’s complicated, but I suppose it starts with Linnea.” At his furrowed brows, she explained. “Linnea was a year or two below me at the Ostwick circle. We ran into her at the tavern in Redcliffe. She was under the false delusion that because I was so eager to please the first enchanter, which wasn’t true by the way,” she added, “I immediately headed to the conclave in place of my friend Willa.”

“How did you wind up there?”

She told the same thing she told Cassandra, about Willa's situation. “I was eager to leave, at any rate.”

She didn’t know why she had made that remark, but he understood. “That’s another story entirely,” she continued, dismissing that anecdote. “Back to Linnea. She told me she decided to join the rebel mages because she thinks the alliance with Tevinter is empowering to mages. No more being treated like garbage for being born with magic. No more world were people get stripped away from everything they know because of their innate abilities.”

“Do you…agree?”

She scoffed. “That’s what it seems like? That I think the alliance with Tevinter is a good idea? It’s a terrible idea. I may not share the same views as Vivienne, who sees the Circle as perfect as it is, but no. I don’t agree with Linnea at all. She joined the rebels because she, like so many other mages, believe that peace and order cannot be restored. I want to let her, and the others know that it can be. I want her to know that the Inquisition can do something. And…uh..." She played with her braid. "You must think I’m daft to not go after the templars.”

“Why would you think that?”

“You were one? You tried multiple times to get Leliana to agree with you.”

“True.” He surmised.

“I don’t know. Maybe you’re glad the mages are going to be put to heel,” she suggested. It meant to be a joke, but she wasn’t sure if he was going to take it as such.

“Josephine, Leliana and I argued almost endlessly about who to approach, but you are the one who made a decision when we couldn’t come to one,” he replied. “Perhaps templars could have suppressed the breach, but the mages can probably serve just as well. I also didn’t want you to think you had to walk into an obvious trap. Even with Leliana’s distraction, it’s still risky.”

“But I am willing to take that risk.”

"So you are."

She looked at her marked hand, covered by the glove. “Someone I know would have told me I’m being foolish. Maybe he was right.”

“No. You’re not foolish. You’re brave.”

“I…” but once she was at a loss for words.

Pepper snorted behind her. He must have understood the common tongue, and he must have been teasing her about her inability to say something coherent. “Something the matter?” She asked him, touching his mane.

She could feel Cullen walk over. “Watch out,” she advised. “He likes to sink his teeth in people’s shoulders, and we wouldn’t want your armor ruined.”

“I don’t think he likes me as much as he likes you,” Cullen said. “I was in here earlier. He’s a stubborn one. My father always said though, that the stubbornest horses were the loyalist.”

“I know what we can do.”

Lydia turned to a bucket were Dennett kept a few sugar cubs. They were treats he used after he brushed or cleaned the mounts up, but Lydia couldn’t resist sneaking Pepper a few more. She grabbed one and handed it over to Cullen. “That should help,” she said, and he placed his hand over Pepper’s nose. As soon as he smelled the sugar cube he gobbled it up. Though his gloved hand was covered in slobber, Pepper seemed to ease up to him, and Cullen was allowed to stroke his mane more freely than he was previously.

“Now you have a friend for life,” Lydia said.

“And I hope you know, I still don’t mind being bothered, when you need someone.”

She was grateful for the growing darkness. In the darkness, it was impossible to see the growing blush on her face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like my chapters are so long!  
> It's so bizarre posting this, I've kept it to myself since November :)  
> I have most of this thing written, save the end. I'm going back and editing though so I can post it on here. Editing takes me forever though, so updates will probably be random.  
> And thanks so much for reading. Even if you don't leave a like or comment, if people are getting even a little enjoyment out of this, that just warms my heart :)


	5. Displaced

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for violence.

First, she was in the throne room. Then there was a pull.

Lydia shrieked as her body slammed to the ground. As quickly as she could she got herself up. She must have been ported to another part of the castle, as wherever she fell, it was covered in water. Dorian was near her, as he was the one that tried to push her out of the way with when Alexius tried to do something with his amulet. “Are you hurt?” he asked her.

She nodded at him. “Fine.”

Slowly, she became aware. And then it was all she could hear. 

_The hum...what is that hum?_

“Watch out!”

Lydia drew a barrier, guarding herself and Dorian from Alexius’s guards, and narrowly missing a projectile. She tried to draw fire, but Dorian was quicker, dispatching the two guards who attacked them. Amidst all of this, there was still the hum.

Persistent, sinister, unyielding. It wouldn't stop, wouldn't stop...why was it...

“Dorian…” She remembered what Varric had talked about. About what happened to Meredith, and what had happened to the temple of Sacred Ashes. The realization hit her. “Dorian…there’s red lyrium here!" She shouted, putting her hand on his shoulder. "We cant stay here!”

He could hear it too, the hum. It was impossible not to hear it. It was everywhere.

This wasn't the castle they had just been it. It was, but it wasn't. Something had to have happened.

She never expected it to be what it truly was.

Dorian figured that Alexius was trying to remove her from time, so she, “the mistake,” would have never been at the conclave. But by his intervention, the spell backfired, and they ended up displaced, and in a different time than Alexius intended.

“If I wasn’t there, I wouldn’t have foiled the Elder One’s plan,” Lydia mumbled. “We just need to figure out if we gone forward or backward in time.”

“All wonderful questions, which we will soon figure out.”

Dorian began to speak of finding the amulet so they could go back. “What happens if it doesn’t work?” Lydia murmured.

“We get comfortable in our new present.” 

 

* * *

 

The lyrium was like a poison, creeping into the walls of the castle and creeping into her mind, and when they found Fiona, they realized the lyrium was capable of much worse.

The once proud enchanter was now only a husk. Her eyes were glazed over and haunted, and she regarded Lydia and Dorian as if they were unreal apparitions, and only visions from the fade. They missed an entire year she said, and Lydia could not believe, that in only one year, Redcliffe had given itself to the lyrium. To the hum.

“There must be something we can do to help you,” Lydia said to Fiona, but even as she said it, she realized that there was nothing they could do to stop the spread. It was a sickness, a plague. 

“The only thing you can do…” the enchanter said, “is make sure this never happens.”

Lydia’s heart thudded, and she closed her eyes to try to regain some semblance of balance. She was going to fall. All she needed was a moment, one moment, but Dorian was already tugging her, warning her that they couldn’t stay there for much longer.

They managed to find Cassandra and Bull in the dungeons. Like Fiona, they weren’t the same people that they were before, they were only a shell of their former self. Dorian had to carefully explain to each of them what had happened, and when they both realized that all of this could disappear, they resolved to make sure this future would never be.

They found Leliana as well, her face ghoulish and sallow. The blight, Lydia realized. While Cassandra and Bull had an initial disbelief at seeing Lydia again, there was none of that in Leliana. There was no hesitation in her as she moved to find her bow, no hesitation as she was the first one out the door, ready to find the magister. Lydia tried to ask her what happened, what they were doing to her, but what was left of the former spymaster brushed her questions aside as “nothing she would want to know.” Dorian too prodded her, under the pretense of wanting to know what happened, but Leliana was almost cruel in her dismissal.

“Damnit Leliana! Tell us what happened!” Lydia spat, needing to know.

“Rifts tore apart southern Thedas. But if that was Alexius or the breach, no one can say.”

“The Inquisition gave up?" 

“They didn’t,” Leliana said tersely, and no matter how much she was prodded, she spoke no more.  

They were outside, in the docking area to the castle when Leliana stopped them abruptly. There were voices, though Lydia could barely make out what they were saying, and then screams echoed throughout.

“Don’t!” Leliana snapped.

It was too late. Lydia had already darted to the noise. All she could see was someone, a woman, toppled over a young boy with a knife. _Blood magic, sacrifice._

Fire erupted from Lydia’s palm, and the sound of the assailant screeching in agony filled the space. “Go!” Lydia urged the boy. As he ran, Dorian took the knife that had fallen to the floor. The screams continued. They continued until the assailant was on the floor in agony.

“You!” The woman screeched, breathing heavily.

Lydia almost dropped her staff. It was Linnea.

The fire tore through her robes, mangling and disfiguring her body. In Lydia’s assault she did not know where her stream of fire landed, and now she could see how she had singed most of Linnea’s body and face to an angry red. She was so weak, that her attempt to cast her own spell at Lydia was so feeble, that she could not even lift her hand. “How did you get here?” Lydia muttered to her mangled body, and Linnea’s response was a breathless curse.

She could feel Dorian behind her. “Where is Alexius?”

“You think I’d tell you?”

Cassandra stuck her sword next to Linnea’s throat, and she laughed, a loud and bitter cackle that echoed through the room. “I’m going to die anyway," she said, turning her eyes from Cassandra to Lydia.

"You can die easily, or you can suffer," Cassandra threatened.

Another of Linnea's loud and cackling laugh echoed throughout. “So Alexius was right after all," she mused.

“Right about what?” Cassandra held the sword closer to Linnea’s pulse point.

“He said you would be back one day, that his spell didn’t work.”

“Clearly not!” Dorian said. "Now tell us where he is!"

Another bitter laugh. “It matters little now. The world belongs to the Elder One.”

Lydia did not waiver. “I’m still here, aren't I?”

“Yes, you...Lady Trevelyan,” Linnea mocked, using that same mocking tone she and so many others had used at the Circle when they called her by that name. “All those years in the circle, the first enchanter telling you about how much potential you had, and you always kept it away, too afraid. No, you were too good to use your magic for anything remotely dangerous. Too busy looking at that templar Asher to ever dream of being something powerful.”

“Do not speak of him,” Lydia threatened.

“You wanted him, didn’t you? Wanted him to take you and fuck you? Did it hurt when he took one look at you and saw someone better? I bet you anything he was plowing that knife-ear you always were with…”

Linnea’s scream reverberated as Lydia hit her hard across the face. “You are despicable, and I pity you,” Lydia hissed. “And you can die alone, in agony, or you can redeem yourself. Now tell me where we can find Alexius!"

Her eyes were daggers, piercing, but Lydia did not look away. “In the throne room,” Linnea said. “Now go. I don’t want you to be the last thing I see before I die.”

The arrow shot through the air. Linnea didn't even have time to scream before the arrow punctured her throat.

Lydia stared as she watched Leliana relax her bow. “We need to leave,” she announced.

“Why did you do that?” Lydia demanded, coming over to Leliana.

“You would have killed her.”

“I was defending someone earlier!”

“You slapped her!” Dorian chimed. “Not that she didn’t deserve it.”

Lydia’s hand stung with the memory. To kill in defense was one thing, but to willingly be cruel to another…

Shame coursed through her. But Willa and Asher…they didn’t deserve to be spoken of like that. No one had the right to be spoken of like that. 

Maybe Linnea didn't have to die.

“Think about it!” Leliana said, trying to get some sense into Lydia. “She could have sent for reinforcements. We have our information. It is better this way.”

Everyone else agreed. It must have been painless, but looking at Linnea, her eyes frozen upward, and her surprised expression mocking, Lydia could take no comfort.

Linnea was right about one thing, however. They all realized this when they made it outside. The breach was everywhere.

Lydia almost toppled over, but luckily Dorian’s arm steadied her. “Maker’s breath,” he muttered. “If this is our reality…”

“This will not be reality,” Leliana stated. “We have to move.”

So they moved, into the castle. When the Venatori ambushed them, Lydia raised a defensive barrier. By all rights Leliana, Cassandra and Bull should have been the ones who were worn out, but they fought with vigor. Lydia was the one who struggled, feeling as though her energy was depleting. She had to move, she had to move. She had to fight. Had to to this.

She cried out when one of the Venatori sliced her shoulder open. Dorian saw, coming over and dealing with the man with his own stream of fire. The wound was deep, and Dorian had to catch her as she stumbled. “She’s hurt,” Dorian said, and she winced as he inspected the wound. “We have to stop so I can heal it.”

It stung as she was led to one of the nearby chambers. The room spun as Dorian cleaned it out, but when he placed his palm hear it she could feel the healing energy as the room straightened, but only slightly. 

She no longer felt the ache, but the room was still in a whirl.

"Lydia?" Dorian got to her level.

“I…I don’t…”

Leliana stood by the door with her bow. "We have to go on."

The lyrium, the death, knowing it was a very real possibility that Alexius got rid of the amulet and the future would be real…too much. This was too much. This had ravaged her, made her into a soulless husk. The lyrium must have been working it's course, just as it had done to the rest. True, Leliana, Cassandra and Bull still had vigor, but it was brought from the brief moment of hope at finding her again. She wasn’t sure how much longer they could make it. She wasn’t sure how much longer she could make it. Not like this.

Cassandra was coming near here. “Herald?”

She shook her head. “I’m not the Herald Cassandra. I was just at the wrong place, at the wrong time."

“That’s not true,” Cassandra insisted.

Leliana’s hand was on the door handle. “We must leave. Alexius is—"

“What happened to the Inquisition?” Lydia demanded suddenly. “Maybe we can get help, reinforcements.”

“Cullen tried,” Cassandra said. “We know he tried. But you were gone. There was no way to seal the breach, and—“

“Maybe he’s working now to help us. Maybe we should go to him, to Haven. I can’t do this Cassandra. I can’t storm the castle, Alexius is bound to have guards. If he truly believed I would come back, he’s bound to be ready. We have to get help. We can’t do this by ourselves!”

Cassandra stood by her. “Lydia…there is no more Inquisition.”

“But the commander must—“

“Lydia, Cullen was killed.”

Since she came from the conclave, she had been carrying a box of her hopes. Now, it was as though the box was breaking, and all her hopes falling to the floor.

“He didn’t give up,” Bull said. “But—“

But that didn’t change the fact he was no longer there.

 _I still don’t mind being bothered_.

She was so guarded when they spoke, judgmental and cruel even. If this future was truly going to be her reality, then that meant Cullen’s last memory of her would have been her storming off with such bravado, unaware that her misguided idea would ruin everything.

Lydia couldn’t move, she couldn’t do anything, and all the while, Leliana was doing nothing to hide her impatience. “Herald, we—“

“Stop calling me that! I didn’t chose to be the Herald of Andraste!” She began pacing back and forth, hoping that would stop the hum of the lyrium, and the way her whole world was spinning. She twisted and pulled her braid, and it was becoming undone. “I can’t do this,” she cried into the palm off her hand.

“You must,” Leliana commanded. “If you don’t—“

“Don’t you understand? This world isn’t a joke to me Leliana!” Lydia shouted, uncaring if more Venatori heard them and stormed through the room. “This is reality! I am suffering as you are suffering now! If this cannot be undone…”

“It will be,” Dorian said evenly. “If Alexius still has the amulet, I can reverse the spell. Undo this, and go back to our time. This will never happen.”

“ _If_ he has the amulet,” Lydia reiterated. “What if he got rid of it?”

“He wouldn’t have. I know him too well.”

She pressed her palms against the wall. “I should never have brought us here,” she muttered.

“But you are here.” Dorian came over and gripped her by shoulders. “This isn’t our reality yet. We can go back, and we can stop this.”

She shook her head. “I’m just a silly little girl.” A kitten, who couldn’t enter the den of wolves.

She looked to her companions, blighted from the lyrium, wounded and barely living. Cassandra, the once powerful woman was only a shell of her former self. The red lyrium radiated off of her, made her form weak and her eyes glazed. Even Bull, who stood beside her, was slumped over and dazed. He had been so boisterous before, all too glad to share a drink at the tavern. There was none of that now, only defeat.

“I failed you all. I failed everyone,” Lydia exclaimed. Her heart thumped a million beats, she was going to scream, she was going to collapse...

“I can’t do this,” she said again. “I can’t—“

She cried out. Lighting had struck her cheek. Leliana had struck her cheek.

Her palm flew to where Leliana hit her. “Listen to me Herald,” she said, forcing Lydia to look at her. “This cannot be our reality. You must go back. If you do not, the Elder One will kill Empress Celene. Demons will tear apart Southern Thedas, and everyone that we love will die. If you do not pull through now, then the world is lost. We are lost.”

“I’m not the Herald,” Lydia repeated, though that scarcely mattered to anyone, it was her title, after all, and she would be called that until she died. “I’m no beacon of hope. I’m Lydia. Just stupid, blithering Lydia, who has some really bad luck, and can’t do anything.”

“Lydia!”

Her head snapped over. “Lydia,” Cassandra called again, walking over to her. “Do you remember when we went to the Hinterlands for the first time?”

At her nod, Cassandra continued. “Your determination was what brought peace back to the area. You saved the refugees. I believed in you then. I believe in you now.”

“Even if I left you?”

“You are here now.”

“Hey,” Bull said, coming over to her as well. “Remember those Vints at the Storm Coast? Remember how you showed them who’s boss?”

“You are still that same formidable woman that came to Alexius, even though you knew he wanted to kill you,” Dorian added.

“Cullen, and the others can all live,” Leliana said. “We can all live.”

The Inquisition wasn’t over yet, Lydia thought as Dorian, Cassandra and Bull all huddled around her, giving her part of their strength. Even Leliana, who stood to the side, looked on, and let her know her own strength, and what she was made of. 

Fire. She was made of fire.

“I believe you are the Herald,” Cassandra said. “You came when we needed you the most. Two times already.”

There was no more time for words. Lydia looked at her friends, and nodded. 

What needed to be done, was done.

 

* * *

 

“Alexius is being sent to Denerim for the time being. He will await punishment there," Arl Teagan said. "But if the Inquisition plans on taking in the mages, then they must leave as soon as possible."

Lydia stood next to Dorian. While she felt as though she had lived one hundred lifetimes, Dorian looked none the worse for wear. “Fiona is gathering her people as we speak,” Cassandra said to the arl.

Lydia thanked the Maker for Cassandra. If she tried to say something coherent now, she feared she wouldn’t be able to, and Arl Teagan was angry enough as it was.

“King Alistair stated he wanted the mages out of Ferelden, and you are keeping them in? In case you forgot, Haven is in Ferelden’s land!”

“Please, Arl Teagan,” Cassandra said as evenly as she could. “We need mages to close the breach. They will be under the protection of the Inquisition.”

“But as free allies!” Teagan bellowed, pointing to Lydia. “What were you thinking?”

“Taking them as prisoners wouldn’t make them want us to help, now would it?” Lydia asked.

Cassandra tried to calm the arl down, while Lydia rested her back against one of the stone pillars. Cassandra and Bull may have made a face at Lydia letting the mages come in as free allies, but the point was, they were alive. Alive and well, and it took much willpower for Lydia not to throw her arms around the both of them. She would be there for them, and she would do everything in her power to make sure they would never have to give their lives for her again.

The arl needed nothing further, but before he could take his leave, Lydia stopped him. “Alexius’s son, Felix,” she said to him. “He helped us. He let us know what his father was doing. You will not arrest him, will you?”

In the time it took Cassandra to finish speaking with the arl, Dorian had moved over to speak to Felix. His hand was on Felix’s shoulder, as if to shelter him. “He has the blight,” Lydia explained. “He won’t last long anyway.”

The arl sighed, but nodded, and then walked of without further comment. Cassandra watched him, shaking her head. “I know you are a mage,” she began, “But after all they have done—“

“Cassandra,” Lydia stated. “You don’t know what I just went through, so if we could, can we all just be friends right now and have this lecture at a later date?”

“You know, you could have done something before she did,” Bull pointed out, and Cassandra grunted. She did however, concede.

Lydia couldn’t help but look at Cassandra and Bull again. Real and strong. And when Lydia put her hands on their shoulders, out of her wits happy to have them there, they seemed to understand. “What happened when you were gone exactly?” Cassandra asked quietly. They had briefly heard of Dorian and Lydia’s time in the future, but Lydia had yet to go into all the little details. Indeed, they could scarcely believe what had happened.

“It would take a lifetime to explain,” Lydia answered. "You will hear everything, even what you may not want to hear."

Dorian left Felix’s side, coming over to the three of them. “I assume you are going back to Haven?” Dorian asked.

Lydia nodded. “What are you going to do?”

“Felix is heading back to Minrathous, once his affairs are settled,” Dorian explained. “He and his father are going to…say goodbye. I’m going to stay here for a bit before he does.”

“And after that?”

Dorian shrugged. “We’ll see, won’t we? At any rate, I’ll let you get back to it, I suppose. The next time you go through time, try not to do it without me.”

Lydia placed her hand on Dorian’s shoulder as he turned to leave, and before he could object, she wrapped her arms around him. “Thank you,” She said, resting her head on his shoulder. “For everything.”

She felt him chuckle as he wrapped her tightly in his arms. It was an embrace of their shared experience, an embrace of their new friendship. Lydia supposed that if traveling through time with someone didn’t make friendships, she would never be sure what would. 

"I’ll see you Lydia,” he bade.

“I’ll see you too Dorian.”

He broke the embrace, and nodded to Cassandra. “Seeker,” he said. “And Iron Bull. Hope traveling with a Vint didn’t bother you too much.”

“Oh, it did,” Bull assured.

Once Dorian was gone, Lydia sighed. She told Cassandra and Bull she would be outside soon, ready to make the trek back to Haven, and she just needed a moment to clear her head. It would take more than a moment though, but she couldn't wait forever. 

You will never forget this. Accept it now.

“Are you all right?”

Lydia blinked at Leliana. While the red lyrium had affected Cassandra and Bull, whatever was done to Leliana in the dark future was so monstrous, she was almost a living corpse.

“I…” Once again, Lydia couldn’t find her voice. “I don’t think I’ll ever recover from that,” she admitted at last. Unconsciously, she held her hand to her cheek, the same cheek Leliana had struck in a different life.

“I have said the same thing about my life,” Leliana said.

“Like what, Leliana?”

Leliana quietly regarded her. “It doesn’t matter," she finally said. “Still, I must live.” 


	6. Remembrance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for some dubious consent.

_The mages could do as much damage as the demons themselves._

Cullen’s words in the chantry rang through her ears, and continued to ring as the Inquisition leaders discussed how the breach would be dealt with. Tomorrow would be the day. She would close the breach, and the Inquisition would move on. She could move on, if she wanted to. Once the mark was no longer needed, in theory see would be no longer needed.

“What’s the matter?” Dorian asked her before she walked outside the gates of Haven to be by herself.

“Everything.”

Dorian understood. He hide behind charm, but she knew he was still shaken from what had happened. “You get to put things back together now,” he said. "It'll be over soon." 

Lydia called him back as he made his way for the tavern. "I'm glad you're staying," she said. 

Dorian smiled. "As am I."

She wondered, what was the cost of putting the world back? Maybe she had done as much damage as the demons. There were countless lives at her feet, so many things she could have done. In the midst of it all, there was her broken past that was never reassembled.

Asher.

Thoughts became recollections. Those then, turned into memories.

 

* * *

 

One summer day, when Lydia was about to turn twenty-one, Asher came to the circle at Ostwick.

He replaced Bryce, much to the chagrin of a few of the other circle girls. With welcoming green eyes and an easy smile, he was the object of quite a lot of affection, and a wave of depression washed over Bryce’s harem when it was revealed the Order had relocated him. In a way Lydia could understand the adoration, even if Bryce had never captivated her as he had others. He was forbidden, but something to talk about. A bright spot in all the dullness of Circle life.

When the new templar arrived however, there was a wave of excitement. “He may even be better looking than Bryce,” one the younger girls, Halia, said with glee.

“Perhaps he will be uglier,” Lydia deadpanned. 

While all the others were trying to get a look at the new arrival, Lydia took the time to get some reading done in the library. She was in some faraway place, far from Thedas when Willa plopped down next to her. Willa had been Lydia’s friend and closest companion since the two of them had been thrown into the circle. First came Lydia, spoiled and proper from the Trevelyan family, and then a month later, Willa, born and raised in the Alienage. They seemed unlikely friends from the outside looking in, and perhaps they wouldn’t even have been friends had their magic not brought them together. But as the Circle stripped away Lydia’s nobility and privilege until she had to begin again, it did the same for Willa. They ended up sharing the same dormitories initially as children, training their magic together, and it was that circumstance that made them friends.

“Well…” Willa began, pulling Lydia away from novel. “I was with Halia when he passed by. She clearly thinks he’s quite the looker.”

Willa was always beautiful. She had chestnut hair, clipped to her shoulders, with brilliant green eyes. She was petite, even for an elf, and it was such a contrast to Lydia’s tall and ungainly form she sometimes felt like a giant when she stood next to her. “Well, what say you?” Lydia asked, referring to the new templar. 

Willa grinned. “Shems all look the same.”

“Except Clarence?”

While Willa and Lydia knew Clarence for a long time, as he was a an older mage in the Circle, the man had taken a recent fancy toward Willa, and she smiled cheekily as she thought of him. “Of course,” she mumbled, dreamy eyed.

“Do you think you two will…?” Lydia insinuated. While relationships between the templars and mages were strictly off limits, it was not unknown for mages to have relationships with each other. It may not have been encouraged by the senior enchanters, but at least the first enchanter and knight commander understood that some things could not be stopped between people. It was why witherstalk potions were often brewed.

“We will have to see,” Willa replied. No doubt, Willa would turn starry-eyed, consumed by her love and desire. Or at least, that’s what Lydia thought happened, from the books she read. Lydia herself had never experienced such feelings, save vicariously through her novels. 

“Someday,” Willa promised. “Someday you’ll meet someone.”

Some were lucky to find someone in the circle. Many weren't. It alluded Lydia, and she thought it always would. Most days she could live, not necessarily blissfully or too happily, but content. Even if she was alone. Though there were times, in her private moments alone, where the melancholy would be almost too much. In these times she would imagine a body, masculine in form, under and over her. The form was nameless and faceless, though she thought of him kissing her, his warm mouth on hers, Sometimes she thought that her nameless and faceless being would gain neither a face nor name.

Sooner than Lydia thought, he did.

She walked through the doorway,  wanting to go to the garden outside. Sure enough, there was the new templar, standing by the doorway to the library. Templars hardly, if ever acknowledged their charges, but when Lydia peaked at him, he nodded in acknowledgement.

She knew she was peaking far longer than was necessary.

She shouldn’t have. It was rude for one thing, but he was also a bloody templar. He was the one that was supposed to watch her, not the other way around. But he was tall, with wavy hair that was mahogany brown. His face was clean shaven, with a prominent dimple in his chin that was both masculine and strong. His lips, full, were set in a smirk. His eyes were a chocolate brown, almond shaped and quizzical. 

“Hello to you,” he said, and Lydia felt a strange quake within.

Over the next few weeks, she wanted to avoid Asher at all costs. Her heart thumped, but her eyes couldn’t help but drift to him when he was near. Her wishes weren’t granted, he always seemed to follow her, and she supposed she could have changed her routines, but she didn’t want to tell Willa about how she transformed from a relatively stable woman to a sniveling tart whenever a certain templar was near. After all, Willa would have said Lydia was infatuated, but Lydia knew that couldn’t have been true. Life was just dull in the Circle. There was nothing to work towards, and only a great expanse of a monotony inside a stone wall. Asher was just a new face in that sea of dullness. Anything new that came around was bound to send her into hysterics.

Willa knew Lydia, though. She wasn’t stupid. She knew something was different. “It’s that templar, isn’t it?” Willa murmured. “You blush whenever he’s near.”

“I don’t care for him Willa,” Lydia said, but she had to say the lie to know it was the truth.

“It can never be him. He’s a templar,” Willa said, trying to bring back sense into her. “You must learn to live with it.”

If only Willa knew that she wouldn’t have to. Exactly one day later, it was midnight, and Lydia was alone in the library. Usually another templar, Rylance, patrolled the library at night, but he wasn’t there. No one was, as far as she could tell. For as much as Lydia complained about always being watched, not having another person there, especially so late at night, made her wary. Deciding she should go to bed anyway, she got up and began to head out.

She did not know someone was waiting for her. She did not know she would be pulled into a grip, a steel gloved hand over her mouth. She thrashed, but he was far too strong. Fire almost began to pour from her palms, but when he turned her around, there was nothing but shock and disbelief.

It couldn’t have been real. 

“At least I wasn’t singed!” Asher huffed at her.

A wave of fear washed over her. He was going to threaten to turn her into the Knight Commander. He picked up on her glances, knew she wanted him. She would be punished.

Yet Asher said nothing, the cool and hard steal of his breast-place pressed into her.

“What is—"

The words were lost when he kissed her.

It was her first kiss, and instead of throwing her hands into his dark tresses, or melting into his body, Lydia only stood there, eyes shot open, not being able to believe what was happening was really happening. From the books, she thought kissing would make her warm, send her into delightful shivers, but Asher’s lips on hers felt…well, they felt like lips crashing onto her mouth. It was almost an invasion when his tongue sought entrance.

At her squeal, he parted, keeping his arm round her middle, dangerously close to her bottom. Locked there.

He cocked an eyebrow. “Didn’t like it?”

“I…it was nice,” she quickly said, not wanting to insult him.

“Oh…good. Next time you might kiss me back though.”

“Next time?” She was aghast, flabbergasted, and she prayed to the Maker no one else would come.

“No one is going to come,” Asher said, sensing her fears. “I’ve been wanting to get you alone for a long time. I knew Rylance typically was here at night, but I switched with him." 

"How did you know I'd be here?" 

"Lucky guess," he answered, smirking.

“I…” She had to rest her hands on his breastplate, and her robe clad arms looked utterly strange next to the templar symbol. “Why? Why are you doing this?”

He laughed. “Isn’t it obvious? I saw you staring, and I thought, well…”

It couldn’t have been possible, that he wanted her as she wanted him. But Asher laughed, proving that she wasn't dreaming. “I hope you’ll want to continue this kitten,” he continued. “Life here is so dull. And you’re so interesting. We just have to be careful. And you can’t tell anyone of course.”

Asher let go, but Lydia could still feel his arms around her. “In three days. Meet me here at midnight,” he said. “Now get off to bed kitten.”

Before she walked away, she asked him if he was going to continue to call her that.

“But of course,” he replied.

“But why?”

Another smirk. “It suits you, kitten.”

That was how it began, that night in the library. Lydia got better at kissing as they continued, and it became easier to keep the secret, at least after a while. Willa noticed that something was different about her, but she could never guess as to why. Lydia had to drift from her, because she knew that if there was one person who could have figured it out, it was Willa. In the times she would have spent with Willa, she thought of Asher instead, dreaming of a place where they didn’t have to hide. Still, she missed her friend.

Two years passed like this. Willa and Clarence fell in love, but if Lydia was honest, she didn’t know if Asher loved her. In their time, he never said anything about the woman who bestowed the kisses he loved so much. She thought that if things were different, they would love each other freely, and know one another as they really were. But they had to learn to live with their few meetings, were there were no time for words, only kisses. Lydia had to learn to be satisfied with what she had.

 _It_ happened after two years, when Lydia was twenty-three. _That_.

There was no satisfaction after that, and life became a twisted cruel joke.

She lived through it.

When the war broke out, she lived through it too. When she tried to see her mother one last time and her father denied her, she found a way to live. She lived when the templars attacked her on the way back to the Circle.

He had saved her that day. Asher. He told her he was leaving after that, to Orlais, maybe Ferelden. She still lived, even after they said goodbye.

Then, there he was, at the conclave. If she had known that that truly would be the last time, she would have changed everything. But she knew it was fruitless to want to change the past. She learned that from Alexius. So consumed was he in making sure Felix never had to be corrupted with the blight, that his life fell at his feet. Lydia’s life had fallen at her feet long ago, when the first enchanter found out about her love for a templar. It had never been reassembled. Seeing Asher again, by the conclave, she thought it could be reassembled, for the first time. Her broken pieces remained as they were, scattered.

The whole world was falling apart. She was still broken, but the world wouldn’t wait for her to find the pieces of her life. _T_

_he mages could do as much damage as the demons themselves._

Cullen was right. The mages were capable of as much damage as the breach. And even though she was broken, lost, and wished everyday that Asher had lived, she would put the world back.

 

* * *

 

“May we speak?”

Solas was surprised that Cullen had approached him, but none the less, he asked how he could be of help. “It’s about the breach,” Cullen said.

The mage, neither Dalish or of the Circle, nodded. In Cullen’s subtle observations of Solas, he knew that he was guarded with almost everyone. It would not be shocking that he would be especially guarded with Cullen. He prepared himself for that, as it was the first time they had spoken one on one before.

 _I do not doubt his capabilities,_ Cassandra wrote to him in one of her private letters. _But how he came by his knowledge, it is difficult to say._

“I see,” Solas studied Cullen with an academic air. “What exactly would you like to know?”

“Some of the mages are still making their way here from Redcliffe, but Fiona has brought with her a group of twenty experienced enchanters to help seal the breach. Do you think they will be able to conjure enough magical energy to properly seal it?”

Solas nodded. “Once we march to the temple, if all the mages channel their energies, then the breach will be reopened. The Herald will then be able to use her mark to seal it. The Inquisition will then focus on finding who’s responsible for the destruction of the conclave, I would imagine.”

“Yes…” Cullen muttered. The Inquisition was taking one thing at a time, and though Leliana’s scouts searched the area, trying to find any clues to who, or what caused the explosion, there were no leads. Either they would never let their presence be known, or they were waiting for the right moment to do just that. “There is…one more thing,” Cullen said. “Lyd—the Herald. What will happen to her, once the breach is sealed?”

“If you are wondering if she will live, yes. She will.”

“And the mark?”

Solas was eerily still. “The mark will remain.”

What would that mean for her? Cullen wondered that as he walked past the tavern. As he passed a few of the templars, that loathsome Nicholls included, he was gifted with a line of distinctly nasty looks. There had been boiling anger and protesting when Cullen announced the mages had been brought in as free allies, and even though the group of templar recruits was relatively small, they had every complaint and more that Cullen had braced himself for. _There are too few templars to watch over that many mages. Fiona can’t keep her people in line. They should have been conscripted. The Herald is a fool._

He wished Cassandra would have intervened when Lydia made her decision, but the offer could not be returned. The mage rebellion was now a part of the Inquisition, as allies, and it was his duty to ensure they would be protected.

“What’s the matter Curly?”

“Nothing,” Cullen replied to Varric, who was by his small fire, as usual.

By his expression, he suspected Varric didn’t believe him. “You weren’t there you know,” he pointed out, referring to the decision.

“You must have heard about what she went through,” Cullen replied, exasperated. When he had read through the Herald’s detailed report he could scarcely believe what she had gone through. He knew he shouldn’t have acted so belligerent when they were in the chantry. He took out his frustrations on everyone, and he was especially frustrated that the one person who should have been the least forgiving of Fiona and the mages ended up being the one who absolved them of what they did. True it was the magister that made the amulet, but had the mages not made the alliance, she would never have had to have gone through that. Yet somehow, she forgave. He may have disagreed, but he knew he was too belligerent, when all he wanted to tell her was he wished she hadn’t gone through that. Though he assured his templars this was not the Circle, and Fiona promised she would keep her people in line, he couldn’t deny his concerns. But Lydia was the Herald of Andraste. He would trust her judgement.

Cullen saw a thousand things written on Varric’s face, but the dwarf only sighed. “Redemption isn’t that far out of reach."

Cullen was about to head back to his tent, but he stopped at the stairs, rubbing his temples in some vain effort to ease the daggers under his skull. With his new life, free of lyrium, there came mediocre days and bad days. This was a very bad day. Someday soon, there had to be a good day. Yet that day seemed too far off for him to even see it.

He figured he would go back to his tent and take care of a few requisition inquiries, but she caught his eye before he could get there.

Lydia came from the mountain path on her horse, cantering along until the horse slowed. She dismounted and affectionately pet the animal, also sneaking him a sugar cube from her pack. Once again, she reminded him of Cliodna, the woman from his mother’s story book. And as she guided Pepper’s back inside the stable, Cullen realized there was all of Cliodna’s determination as she roamed through the lowlands, looking for the man she loved. Cliodna searched and searched, not stopping until she found what she was looking for. Lydia Trevelyan must have looked for something too.

She disappeared into the stables, and Cullen resolved that it was time for him to get back to work. He was almost back to his tent when he saw the figure from his peripherals. Chancellor Roderick, making his way towards the stables, to Lydia.

Abandoning his original plan, Cullen quickly made his way over. _Don’t you dare, don’t you dare say anything to her…_

The shouting grew louder as Cullen neared. Roderick was utterly mad, shouting that she was a whore, a blaspheme, and a thousand other names that should have never been said. “Do you realize what you’ve done, you mage whore?” Roderick demanded. “You have ruined everything, brought shame and—“

“Hey!” Cullen darted over to Roderick, cutting in between him and Lydia, and nearly knocking him backward. “What gives you the right to come here and think you can speak to someone like that?”

“You don’t honestly believe—“

“You will shut up,” he growled, and Roderick stared, shocked that he would ever say such a thing to someone of the chantry. Indeed there was a time Cullen would have never dared, but Roderick had now taken things too far. If this is what it took to stop him, then he would do it. “For months, the Inquisition has offered you shelter and lodgings, and while you have done nothing but harass others, this woman has secured the means to close the breach for good. I am warning you now. If you say one thing more, you will leave Haven. I promise you that.”

Roderick opened his mouth, almost ready to challenge him, but Cullen stood his ground. He took one last look at Lydia, one last look at Cullen, then sauntered off.

With the chancellor gone, Cullen turned around to Lydia. Backed against the stable wall, her face was pale, her eyes far away. “Are you alright?” he asked. “Did he hurt you at all?”

She shook her head. He had learned to brush off Roderick months ago, and as far as he knew, he hadn’t attacked Lydia until now. Cullen should have still figured this may have happened. Since this began Roderick was outspoken of his distrust for the mages and the rebellion. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry you had to hear that,” he feebly apologized.

“Why are you defending me? I know you’re not happy with this either. You made that abundantly clear in the chantry.”

“That’s not true,” he quickly replied, trying to break the space between the two of them.

“Could have fooled me.”

Cullen closed his eyes. It was as if the daggers were sharpening. He winced when he placed his gloved hand to his temple.

“Are you hurt?”

“I…no.”

“Are you sure? You seem pained.”

“It’s only a headache,” he lied. “Truly, I’m fine.”

She sighed, her blue eyes downcast. Cullen cursed himself, his migraine, his shaky hands, and burning sensation in his throat. Oh yes, he had begun to feel that not too long ago. His body was craving the lyrium, and if he allowed himself to, he could hear its cruel hum. To have one good day... Perhaps if he willed himself enough, he would have a good day. No matter how bad it ever got, he had to endure it. He couldn’t ever be that man he was during the time he took the lyrium. He got a glimpse of that man again, in the chantry after he had learned what Lydia had done with the mages. He couldn’t allow that again.

In the stables now, Cullen saw Lydia. He saw her determination. He had to see what she had seen in the mages. “I’m sorry I upset you in the chantry,” Cullen said, gently and as soothingly as he could muster.

“I don’t know what you have seen,” she admitted, looking towards the ground. “You’ve probably seen the worse we have to offer. I understand wanting to be cautious. Just don’t be…”

But she stopped suddenly, and didn’t continue. “Don’t be what?” Cullen gently prodded.

“An ass,” she finished.

He felt himself smirk. “I can try, but it may be a little difficult.”

She returned the grin. “Well, you are Ferelden. I won’t hold it against you if it’s a little difficult.”

Her teasing made his smile broaden. “I thought you said your mother was from Ferelden. What do you have against us?”

“Nothing at all. Especially when compared to Orlesians.”

They laughed together. Her laugh was vibrant, joyful, melodious even. Enough to turn his day into a good day.


	7. Loud and Clear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for violence

On the morning that Lydia would go to the temple, Cullen began the morning like every other morning, with putting on his armor.

Cullen treasured few material things, but his armor that he had commissioned when he was named Commander of the Inquisition was one of them. At first he told Cassandra it was a luxury and an expense they could not afford, but she insisted that the Commander needed a new set of armor. Per his wishes then, Harrit made him a simple breastplate, gloves, and pauldrons made of a supple leather and overlaid with metal. Sturdy, warm, and able to withstand. It molded to his body, very unlike his previously bulky and steely templar armor. Liberating and strange, that he no longer wore the templar crest, though he still knew he wore his past as clear as day. That was why he kept his gauntlets, etched with the symbol of the order. It was impossible to change, without accepting the past.

Cassandra was impressed with Cullen’s new armor when she saw it. “There is something I would like to give you though,” she said. And in his hands, she placed a coat. It was a dark burgundy, lined with fur. He had no eye for clothes, but there was a masterful craftsmanship behind the lining. In all his years, he knew he had never held anything as fine as this, and he wasn’t sure if he ever would again.

“It was my brother Antony’s,” Cassandra explained. “I have held onto it for years, but I would like you to have it now.”

“I cannot take this,” Cullen told her, trying to hand it back.

The Seeker was stubborn. “No, please. I think Antony would have been glad it has been passed on. Really Cullen. I would like you to have it.”

Cullen remembered that moment as he pulled the mantle out of his chest, and reverently placed it around his shoulders. He kept his other mementos in that same chest, remembrances from his life before. There were still elderflowers inside, and Cullen knew those were one of the last things his mother sent him before the blight. It was one of her idiosyncrasies, to send him flowers in the letters she wrote him. They grew around his old home in Honnleath, and there was no other smell that could so easily remind him of home. They had withered, long ago, yet still Cullen treasured them. Even after all these years, their scent lingered, and their fragrance always found their way to his clothes.

The mantle was his promise of the future, and the smell of elderflowers the reminder of his time before. The time when he was just a boy, and never would have suspected what would happen. But there was no one who could ever have suspected what would happen to him.

There was one memento in his chest, one that bridged together the mantle and the elderflowers, just as it had bridged his future and his past. His brother Branson’s coin, the one he carried for luck. Templars weren’t allowed such things. Faith was the only thing that they should see through, yet there were times when Cullen would find himself clutching that coin, his only comfort when everything became too much. Perhaps he didn’t always carry it. There were times, especially after he left Ferelden for the first time, where he couldn’t look at it. It was too painful to remember. But since this began, he had held it in his palm, more and more. And on this morning, the morning where the Inquisition would assault the breach, he placed it in the lining of his coat. He thought maybe that simple act gave Lydia the luck to return, unharmed from the breach. Alive, and back to him.

If only he knew then. As the months turned into years, and the years into a decade, it was a phrase that he repeated until it became a prayer. But that morning as he thought of his small treasures, he realized later that if he did know what would happen when Lydia returned from the breach, unharmed, he would have done so many things differently. But in his thinking that the worst was over, he had no idea that the worst was yet to arrive.

 

* * *

 

“Cullen…we must close the gate. We must go!”

“I will not close the gate until they’ve returned. Head to the chantry Rylen, and help anyone on the way!”

That dragon soared overhead. “Go!” Cullen shouted.

At last, Rylen obeyed, but Cullen knew couldn’t stand by the gate forever. He also knew he would sooner see himself die than leave anyone behind. He heard the roaring, smelled the burning of the fire, but at last, he saw them in the distance. Lydia, along with Cassandra, Sera, and Dorian. In the chaos, the three of them were near Lydia when she ran to the trebuchet. They followed her as she manned them, knocking down as many templars as they could.

They fell into the gates, and Cullen shut it hard. Without warning there was a loud, piercing shriek ringing throughout the sky.

“Haven is burning!” Cassandra exclaimed. “We have to move!”

Cullen looked up. He saw illustrations of archdemons before, but dragon or archdemon, he knew all too well that their minimal resources could never take it down.“ The chantry is the only building that can withstand that...beast!” he shouted, and as the dragon swooped down again, he braced them all for an eruption of fire.

“Make them work for it,” Cullen stated as they all crouched. “It’s all we can do.”

“Work for it?” Lydia put a hand on him. “What do you mean?”

“The templars are still attacking us. There are too many to make this livable. Retreat is our only option, but that dragon stole us the time you gained from the trebuchet.”

“There must be some way!” Lydia was breathing heavily, too heavily.

In the middle of this, Sera had begun sending arrows everywhere. “They’re attacking!” She exclaimed. “We have to help them!”

Frantically, Lydia nodded. “Go!” she ordered. “Cassandra, Dorian help who you can. I’ll follow.”

Sera had no hesitation, she leaped up the stairs, saving the Inquisition scout who had been caught in the fray. Dorian too sprang to the right, to the tavern. Cullen could hear the agonized screams coming from the inside.

It couldn’t be real. The Elder one, the templars at his beckoning… _the templars_.

This was all a dream. He would awake soon, covered in sweat, and everything would be back the way it was.

Lydia’s cry of pain made it all too real.

“What’s the matter?” Cassandra knelt to her.

Lydia opened the folds of her coat. Ripping through the fabric of her undershirt was a long and angry slash. Blood poured, streaming down her chest and seeping through the fabric. “It’s not too deep,” she insisted. “But I can’t heal.”

She wasn’t telling the truth. It needed healing, and quickly. She was losing blood, and already her face had become eerily pale. Cullen cursed. “Why didn’t you tell Dorian to heal you?”

“I’m fine, others need help!”

She winced as she began to move. He had no choice but to grab her. She cried out in pain when he linked her arm over his shoulder. “Cover us!” he called to Cassandra.

“No! Help Dorian and Sera. Save as many as you can!” Lydia cried. “Commander, let me go, I can help them!”

“You’re losing blood. I can’t let you take that risk!”

She struggled, but it was no use. She was too weak and Cullen too strong. As quickly as he could, Cullen half carried Lydia to the chantry, Cassandra by their side. She could barely walk, but Cullen held her, supporting her waist while her arm was slung around his shoulder. He was deafened, the sounds of screaming on all sides. Bodies singed and burned, their eyes open in horror and agony. Templars, relentless, not caring who died in their wake. Not caring that it was innocent people who they were murdering. “Don’t look,” he told Lydia. “Please, don’t look.”

But it was too late, and she wouldn’t listen, and there was nothing they could do as Haven burned around them. Maker, he could smell them, and the smell was putrid as it stung his vision. The smoke too was everywhere, coming into his lungs and forcing out an angry cough. He could barely make out Sera in the distance as she shot arrow after arrow, giving Adan enough time to rush to the chantry. She was nimble and quick, but in that time she reached for her quiver, she did not see Bryant, under a templar’s blade, and she did not see him as the templar plunged the sword into...

“Move Cullen!” Cassandra cried. “Don’t look!”

“No, stop!” Lydia shouted right back.

“You’re losing blood!”

“It’s Linnea!”

Cullen turned to where Lydia was pointing. The mage, Linnea, the same one she mentioned earlier, was left without a weapon, feigning off the Templars with lightning magic.

Lydia thrashed. “We have to save her! She won’t win!”

“There are too many, we have to move!”

“No!” He misjudged how strong her willpower was. Lydia broke from his grasp, reaching for her staff. Fire cascaded from it, smothering one of the templars around Linnea. As Lydia kept the fire going, Cassandra took her shield, knocking the templar into the ground. Cullen too had moved, ready to help Linnea, but she already had gotten up and rushed away. If it wasn’t for that, he would not have seen the templar, extend his blade toward Lydia…

He knew where to hit, that small patch under the waist where the heavy plate connected to the rest of the armor. The templar’s cry was soundless as he clutched his waist, crumpling to the ground.

_I could have known him…Did I know him?_

Cassandra grabbed his hand. “We have to move. We have to move now.”

The chantry doors flew open as the last of Haven rushed inside. Lydia was falling, and Cullen called out for healing. Fiona found them, she rushed over and began to heal Lydia. Cullen waited for his heart to return to its normal rate, but when he saw Sabine, a man laying on her chest as she tried to heal him, his beating heart clenched. Tighter still it did, as he watched her weep when the magic failed. It didn’t matter where he turned his gaze, despair was everywhere. Leliana was with Josephine, a hand on her arm as the tears poured. Rylen was carrying a limping Flissa, setting her down as her emotionless gaze saw everything and nothing. And there was Lydia, on the ground and whimpering as Fiona tried to heal her. By all rights the color should have returned to her face, but she was too pale, too weak.

“What’s the matter?” Cullen demanded. “Why isn’t it…?”

Lydia cried out again. “I’m fine,” she managed to say, glancing at Cullen. “I’m healed.”

“You need a poultice,” Cullen said. “You need—“

“You needed to let me save more people!”

“You were too weak” Fiona insisted. “Please, the Commander was right.”

“Many where saved,” Cassandra crouched down to her. “We have to think about we will do now. We need a plan, we need…”

“You need to get everyone to safety.”

The pale faced boy from earlier, the one who called himself Cole appeared, and he was carrying a slumped Chancellor Roderick on his soldiers, weakened and bleeding. “A templar’s blade,” he said, setting Roderick down. “The blade went deep. He is going to die.”

“Charming boy,” Roderick scoffed.

Fiona rushed over, looking at the wound. “He’s right,” she said. “Magic can delay it, but, we were too late. There’s too much blood that was lost.”

“Dammit!” Cullen cursed. “That dragon stole back any time the trebuchets earned us.”

“I’ve seen an archdemon,” Cole said, much too calm. “I was in the fade. But it looked like that.”

“I don’t care what it looks like! It’s cut a path for the army! They’re going to cut down everyone in Haven!”

“The Elder one doesn’t care about the village, he only wants the Herald.”

“Then let me go!”

Everyone turned their eyes to Lydia, standing there with all the determination of Cliodna.

But Cullen could be twice as stubborn. “You will not sacrifice—“

“Look at me. I almost died. If I can save the villagers, then he can have me.”

“It won’t work,” Cole said. “No one else matters but you. But to get to you, he will crush every last person. I don’t like him.”

“You don’t like him?” Cullen repeated, flabbergasted, but there was no time to think how he could possibly know such a thing, and that wasn’t what mattered now. “Herald,” he began, praying he could muster the calm needed. “There is nothing we can do to make this survivable. But that avalanche caused by the trebuchet gave us some time. If we can turn the remaining trebuchets, turn one last slide, then maybe—”

Lydia shook her head. “We do that, then everyone gets buried. We have no time.”

How many times in his life did he think he was going to die? Too many to count. He slid his hand in his pocket, grasping the coin. Luck hadn’t failed him yet.

Even he knew, there were some things luck could not save.

Always act with courage, always be brave. Even when things are at the lowest of the low. His father had told him that, the day he left for the templars.

“We’re dying,” Cullen said. “But we get to choose how. Not many get that choice.”

Lydia closed her eyes, as if that drowned out everything else, as if she could escape. Cullen wanted to reach for her, tell her she did all she could. She needed to know how brave she was.

“Chancellor Roderick has something he wants to say.”

Cullen looked at Cole, who had been studying Roderick intently. Sure enough, Roderick began speaking. “There is a path. You would not know it, unless you made the summer pilgrimage, as I have. The people can escape. Andraste must have shown me…she must have shown me so you can save them, Herald.”

“Herald?” Lydia blinked at Roderick. He had never called her that before.

“So many who took the path died at the Conclave. Yet I remember. If you can save them, then you are more.”

Lydia turned back to Cullen. “Can you do it?” She asked. “If I go to the trebuchet, will that buy you enough time to save everyone?”

“Possibly, if he shows us the way.”

The hope didn’t spring until Roderick responded. “I can do this,” he muttered. “I will do this.”

It could work. The Inquisition soldiers could fill the trebuchet while Lydia provided a distraction. Haven would be buried, but Cullen could get them out with Roderick’s help.

“I will go,” Lydia said. “Let me do this.”

He did not understand. Not at first. “But Herald,” Cullen began, “When Haven is buried, what of your escape?”

 

* * *

 

She saw the amber eyes, dawning in the realization. Some part of her, the rational part, knew she should just run. She was prepared to die during that first assault on the breach. She was just as prepared now.

Something was holding her back.

Cullen, and the way his eyes pleaded her. _Stay_.

Funny and strange, the small things she noticed when she thought it would be the end. The fullness of his lips, the prominent cheekbones. The crinkles around his eyes. The curl that had fallen on his forehead. Ever so gently, she reached for the errant stand of hair, tucking it back into place. “Lead them to safety,” she muttered, and began to turn away.

He protested. He tried to grab onto her as she ran, but as she turned back she saw Cole, holding onto him. “She wants to do this. He wants her and she will make sure he has her, so no one else can be harmed.”

“Lydia, please—“

“It’s loud, and it’s clear, what I must do,” Cole channeled. “You must lead them, Cullen.”

She did not know how Cole knew, but he knew exactly what needed to be said. Slowly, Cullen backed away. Not accepting, but knowing. Respecting her choice.

Lydia took one last look around her. There was Cassandra, crouched over Roderick. Dorian nearby, trying to gather as many people as he could. Blackwall, Sera, Bull, Vivienne and Solas, Leliana and Josephine, all helping. Her friends.

Cullen.

Their eyes met. One last time.

I am sorry Cullen, she thought. I am sorry I didn’t bother you more.

 _The strength is inside you, my love._ Her mother had said that, in another life.

It was.

It was. Loud and Clear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I continue this journey, comments and feedback are greatly appreciated :)


	8. Clarity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for mention of an attempted rape.

_Lydia…_

_Lydia…_

_No!_

Cullen slammed his hand into the table, his palm stinging. “Why didn’t she man the trebuchet and run?” he demanded.

“No one can outrun an avalanche. We stayed with her as long as we could before she told us to leave,” Cassandra explained as calmly as she could. “The templars, they kept coming. If you would have seen what they have become Cullen…”

“I know what they became Seeker. I saw them in Haven. I want the Herald to be found!”

Maker he saw everything again. The Elder One, with Samson and the rest of the templars, corrupted by the lyrium. Lydia in the chantry, not even hesitating to run and save them all. That boy keeping him there. Lydia’s eyes pleading with him to let her go. Cullen then turning Dorian, Cassandra, and Sera, the nearest to him. Pleading with them in turn. If she would not let him go, be there and protect her as long as possible.

Someone was putting his hand on his back. “There was nothing that could be done,” Dorian said. “We were by the trebuchet. The dragon was overhead, and she demanded we leave her. Said the avalanche was only going to take one person. She threatened us. Said if she didn’t run she would set us on fire. It was an empty threat, but…we…”

They did what they could. Cullen knew that there was no choice for the three of them but to run. He nodded bitterly.

“Maybe…maybe she’s not gone,” Sera hoped. “She’s a mage, right? She could have ran…used magic to burn or something. I mean…it’s possible.”

“Cullen.”

Cullen turned to Rylen. “How are you holding up?” he asked his second.

“I would say I’ve been through worse, but I haven’t,” Rylen replied. “I’ll manage.”

They were all managing. As soon as Leliana had deemed them far away enough, the entire rest of Inquisition had settled. What little salvage they could bring from Haven they had turned into makeshift camps and tents. The wounded were given first priority, and the mages tended to them while Leliana and Cullen sent scouts to Haven. He asked them, every single one, _find her_.

“Any word?”

Rylen shook his head. “We looked. She wasn’t there." 

"But you didn't find a body," he frantically pointed out.

“But we don’t know if she’s alive.”

“We don’t know if she’s gone either. Maybe if we send a few more…”

“It’s impossible, Cullen. I wish it wasn’t, but there’s nothing more we can do.”

He closed his eyes, and he could feel the light brush of her fingertips across his forehead as she smoothed away an askew curl. “How can you be sure…there must…”

“Dammit, I want her to live too!”

Dorian had overheard, and he came so close to Cullen that he could see the flecks of grey in his eyes. “I want her to be found, but you cannot keep sending men back there.”

“What right do you have—"

“Listen to me!” he demanded. “She sacrificed herself so no one else would have to die. The Elder one is still out there. The avalanche might have stalled him, but it will not go quietly. It’s still out there.”

Cassandra too, came near him again. “He’s right. Cullen, we can’t. It’s too dangerous to send anymore people back to Haven.”

He barely heard the light footsteps in the snow, didn’t even know it was Leliana until he heard her soft voice. “We need to send scouts north. They need to alert us of any danger.”

Dorian and Cassandra were right. It was against every part of his training, to go after one person when their was a majority that needed protecting. And if that one person was already gone…

_Lydia…_

“We can’t send anymore scouts, at all,” Cullen relented. “To Haven, or anywhere else. We’ve made too many attempts to salvage the city already. They are tired and weak, and the Elder One’s armies would not attack now, not when they lost so many resources during that attack. They have to prepare.”

Cassandra nodded in agreement. “We cannot leave, not yet.”

“You always take his side!” Leliana shouted. She rarely, if ever, raised her voice, yet when she did, the frustration and fury was palpable and all too evident. “An hour ago you were sending most of our scouts to find our Herald. She is gone Cullen, I tried to tell you that from the beginning. But you—"

“Stop,” his voice was an icy rage. “That woman saved us all. And even if part of me knows the chance of her being alive is only one in a million, I would still look to find that one chance.”

Josephine clenched Leliana’s hand as Cullen walked away, not wanting to hear anymore of it. Yet he couldn't escape the despair that leaked into every corner he walked. So many wept for those they had lost. Many more were terrified of what they had seen. Then there were those who asked in utter anguish,  _where is she?_

He couldn’t bear it, couldn’t bear it. He had seen all this before, and he never thought he would have to see the innocent people weeping again, or the bodies strewn as they were cut down by unfeeling monsters. He didn't ever want this again, just as he had never wanted to lose anyone again.

“Haven makes you remember.”

It was that boy from earlier. Cole, he called himself. “Demons asked questions that hurt you," he continued. "There was crying, weeping. Bodies everywhere, But where is she? Maker let her be alive, let her live...”

The air stilled as Cole spoke. He couldn’t have known. It was impossible, Cullen had never told anyone before.

It seemed impossible things were happening a lot, recently. “I don’t know how you know that,” Cullen said. “But do not speak of that, ever again.”

His eyes were so innocent as he apologized, Cullen might as well have been looking at a little boy. “You’re sad,” he said. “Lydia…make her be alive. It should have been me, not her. I don’t deserve to look into her eyes, don’t deserve to—“

“Stop.” It was neither a demand or a harsh order, only an exasperated plea. He could not hear more of Lydia from anyone. Not when he knew her vision would always be on his mind.

“Cullen?” Rylen had come near him. “Chancellor Roderick wants to see you.”

He blinked in surprise. “Roderick?”

Rylen nodded. “He isn’t doing well, mate.”

Cullen followed Rylen to the tent where Fiona was, hunched over a makeshift pallet where Chancellor Roderick lay. His breathing was labored and uneasy, but he noticed Cullen. “Commander,” he muttered. “The Herald…”

He swallowed. “We… can’t find her.”

“But you must. She—"

“Why do you even care, Chancellor? You demeaned her since the beginning.”

“I was…wrong. She…”

As he began to cough, Fiona pressed a cool compress to his forehead, shaking her head at Cullen for being so harsh. The man was vile, said untoward things to Lydia, but still Cullen felt a twinge of pity.

“She saved us,” Roderick managed. “She was chosen by the Maker to save us. She must be alive.”

Cullen wanted it to be true, more than he remembered wanting anything before. “How can you know, Roderick? She set the trebuchet, causing the avalanche. If she is alive, the Maker shielded her himself.”

He closed his eyes, biting his tongue so hard he could taste the coppery blood. Even so, he welcomed the sting. It was something to focus on, other than her. He wasn’t sure what would happen, if he allowed himself to continue to think of her.

“Commander. There is a way...she could have lived.”

He looked back down at Roderick, staring in disbelief. “What do you mean?”

“Haven rests on a mountain. The cult that used to live in the city before Andraste’s ashes were discovered carved many tunnel-ways that led through the mountains. It is possible, she could have found one. It would have shielded her from the avalanche.”

He had heard of the tunnelways, and he knew that Leliana’s scouts had traced a few outside of Haven. Yet still, it was one in a million chance that she could have found the tunnel, had the Elder one not gotten to her first. One in a million, but one in a million was not impossible.

Cole came over, taking over from were Fiona left off. “He shielded her in the temple. He shielded her in Redcliffe. It had to have happened again.” Roderick said as Cole tended to him.

“She’s Cliodna,” Cole said. “Cliodna always found a way.”

Cullen rushed to were Leliana, Josephine and Cassandra were standing. “I’m going to find her,” he announced.

Leliana stared. “Commander, you won’t make it!”

“The tunnels. She may be there, and if we don’t find her, she will die.”

“I will go with him.”

Leliana began to protest, both Cullen and Cassandra could not possibly go. It was too risky, they could not lose two Inquisition leaders.

Josephine grabbed Lelian’s wrist. “Let them go,” she said. “They have to try.”

Cullen could feel his coin in his pocket as he and Cassandra headed due north. After all of this, it was still there.

“I can’t believe the Maker would let her die,” Cassandra mused. “Not after all that.”

“Hold on Lydia,” Cullen muttered. _I won’t stop until I’ve found you_.

 

* * *

 

The fade showed her a tapestry.

She saw her memories as if they truly were woven together. The fade took her here, there, and nowhere, until there was a collage of faces. Her mother, father, Willa, Asher. The Inquisition. Amidst this, everywhere, a burn.

She understood. She was alive. There was no way her body could have hurt as much if she wasn’t. She did not know how long she had been unconscious when she woke. But there was only one thought, one need: move.

Her whole body felt as though, well, it felt as though she had been tossed and thrown against a wall. Corypheus did just that. She winced when she rose. Broken ribs, she suspected. It took her too long to stand, though she found she could walk, albeit slowly and with much effort. When Corypheus grabbed her, she dropped her staff, but she learned how to rely on her magic without one a long time ago. This was livable, if she was careful.

Her mark illuminated the darkness, and she appreciated the irony in it. The “stolen” mark brought her into this, but it would help get her out. She had made it through time, through the burning of Haven, and lived through an encounter with an ancient Tevinter Magister. She could get through this.

She saw the blizzard before she made it to the edge of the cave. She could wait it out, build a fire and stay, but the longer she lingered, the greater chance the Inquisition would believe she had perished. And they would not look for her, the longer she waited. The only option was to find them, before they strayed too far away from Haven. She had to do this, even though the more she moved, the more she ached. It ached so much. It must have been like how fire felt. If only she could heal, but she had truly only mastered one thing in her magic, and that was her fire.

It couldn’t heal her, but perhaps her fire could help her in another way. Her coat was thin, and if she was going to brave the snow, it wouldn’t give her the protection she needed. She had used a considerable amount of mana in Haven, but she could feel that her magical energy was recharging. She created a spark of fire in her hand, cradling it as close to her body as she could. It would give her the warmth she would need. It was impossible to say how long she would have to go through the snow.

She made it ten paces before the fire blew out. Snow hit her face like little icy daggers, but she stopped and made her fire again, this time trying to shield it away from the wind and snow. She made it about twenty more steps before it blew out again. The third time, she barely had it for ten seconds. It was no use, she would have to trek through the snow without it, and she would have to move as fast as her broken body would allow.

She wasn’t sure how far she got before wondering if she was even going in the right direction. Once she emerged from the cave she went in the only available direction, straight ahead. There was no way to tell if she was going in the same direction the Inquisition would have gone, but now no way to turn back. She had once thought snowfall to be beautiful, but that was before she ever experienced a true blizzard. Nothing about this was beautiful, and it shook her to the core until every step was agony.

Her life may have been broken, but her body wasn’t. She kept going. There were moments when she thought she was going to collapse right onto the snow, yet still, she continued onward. It would have been ironic, and a little sad, if this was how she died. Not from closing the breach, or going backward in time, but from her own damn self not wanting to press on. She could do this, she chanted in her head. Lydia Trevelyan was not a quitter, she was a fighter. She could do it. She knew she could.

There, in the middle of a snowstorm, she almost laughed bitterly, even as the ice continued to hit her face. Her mother told her she could do anything, but look where that led her. Straight to the Circle. “The strength is inside you,” her mother said after she had woken up from that terrible nightmare. “The strength to overcome.”

Her mother taught her to be brave, and defend herself and others. And when she saw her father’s brother press his body into her mother, rip her dress and press his hot mouth to her, she knew the strength was inside her. Her mother didn’t know then that magic ran in the family, and it could be passed onto her daughter. Her mother didn’t know her daughter would use her magic to stop her attempted rape.

She didn’t mean to hurt her uncle so badly, but even as a little girl she knew no one had the right to do something like that. Her mother held her afterward, telling her everything would be alright, nothing would happen to her. It was only an accident. That was the first lie. The second was when she promised their goodbye wouldn’t be forever. But when the templars took her away, her mother never visited, never wrote, even when she promised she would. In her youth she thought her mother perfect, a celestial being that showed her a different sort of magic, one of sticking seeds into the dirt to have a garden of roses, jasmine and gardenia. It was a magic Lydia carried, growing a garden in the Circle. She always planned on showing her mother, yet she never came. She had abandoned her after that day, and forgot that she even existed.

Lydia always thought that if she had never seen that vile man do what he did, she would have never have found her magic. But it happened, and she knew to save her mother, she would do it all again. Despite the broken life full of broken promises, and despite the fact that it would eventually lead to a snowy death, she would do it all again. Every step.

Perhaps it wasn’t so bad, to die like this. Two months ago, she had all but accepted her death at the hands of the breach. Back then her adrenaline coursed, there was no time to think of anything else but what she needed to do, damn the consequences. Now though, she thought about what would happen to her. She was going to continue to walk, for as long as she could, but she wasn’t sure if she was going to dare believe that the Maker would take her to the golden city. At any rate, the creature said that the halls of the heavens were empty. He was realer than any statue of Andraste was, realer than the Maker had ever been to her. She used to pray to the statue of Andraste every night in the Circle chantry, asking for her mother. Nothing happened. Nothing ever happened. It wouldn’t happen now.

She thought of her mother again, mostly out of habit. Whenever something happened she always thought of her. Her smile, her voice, her last words. Her tear-stained face. The broken promises. If there was a Maker, if Corypheus had lied, she hoped that her mother was somewhere, and knew how much her broken promises hurt. She hoped she knew that Lydia loved her still.

When her legs gave out, the snowy ground was almost welcome. She then thought of Asher, and how his arms were always so welcome. Asher’s smile, and his kiss. They comforted her when little else came, just as they were comforting her now.

She felt them around her, strong arms. Masculine arms.

“Ash…” she tried to say his name. It was warmer now. Asher was here. Asher was welcoming her…

“Lydia…”

Numbly, she became aware. It couldn’t have been Asher’s voice that said her name. Though distinctly male’s, it was softer, gentler. She had heard it before, somewhere.

Her hands traveled, and though they were bitten by the cold, they searched. Her fingertips contacted a face full of stubble. Asher’s face was never filed with stubble, she remembered. It wasn't him.

She glanced upward, meeting a pair of amber eyes. She knew those eyes, and she knew the arms around her, arms that were now trying to support her. “I know you,” she said, breathless. “You’re Cullen.”

“Yes, it’s me Lydia," he said, joy in his voice. "I have you now. You’re going to be alright.”

If she wouldn’t have known better, she would have sworn he had bitten back tears. He took off his mantle, wrapping it around her shoulders for warmth. Strange, she smelled elderflowers as he lifted her off the ground. Somewhere in her mind she thought she should protest, as she wasn’t exactly petite, but he picked her up with ease. She heard another voice as he trudged through the snow, Cassandra, speaking of thanks and answered prayers. And there was Cullen's voice, speaking sweetly of how they had searched and searched for her, and how she had come back.

She didn’t know how long she was in his arms, veering between waking life and unconsciousness, but the last thing she remembered before unconsciousness claimed her was of how lovely the smell of elderflowers was. That, and how safe she felt. Safer than she ever felt since this whole thing began.


	9. Sunrise

He was not worthy of this, to hold her in his arms and protect her from the snow as she drifted in and out of unconsciousness. His sullied hands were not worthy enough to shield her away from the oncoming ice, shaking her awake as her eyes fluttered and closed shut. “Hold on, just a little more just a little more,” he chanted.

He was unworthy, but Cullen carried her still. More tenderly than he had ever carried anything in his life, because he hadn't yet held anything as precious as she.

He had never seen such a sight as he did when he carried her from the snow to safety, the men and women of the Inquisition parting so Cullen could bring her to the healers. An awed silence overcame the Inquisition, a mixture of shock and reverence as he carried their Herald.

“Tell the healers!” Cassandra ordered anyone that would listen. “Tell them she needs healing, now!”

The sight of him carrying her, half crazed and mad must have been a surreal sight. A trick of the fade. Cassandra’s order broke the trance, and as soon as it did, men and women fell at Cullen’s feet, praying to the Maker and Andraste, chanting thanks for bringing her back. Others rushed to look at the Herald, touching her to make sure she was really there while tears streamed down their faces.

“Cullen, you’re not well, you need rest. Give her to me.”

“No!” Cullen turned her away from Dorian. He had to set her down. He had to know she would be safe.

“She’s here now. Nothing will take her away. You need rest!” Dorian exclaimed, as if he could read Cullen’s thoughts.

Even after Dorian and Blackwell took her away, Cullen followed as they placed her in the healer’s tent. A raised palette ready, Blackwall and Dorian cleared the way so Fiona, Vivienne and the rest of the healers could work. Cullen backed away, allowing them room. As he backed away he stepped on a broken bottle. Lyrium.

He backed further away as he became aware of the smell, the call, and he knew he couldn’t stay much longer before the hum drove him mad. There had to be something he could do for her, anything, but his voice was drowned out by Vivienne’s instructions, and the rattling of potions and supplies. He watched them as they moved quickly, removing her outerwear, including his mantle. When he first found her he did not see the beginnings of frostbite, but now he could see that her fingers were blackened by the cold. He thought that was all, but when they removed her tattered undershirt, he saw the purple and black bruises on her rib cage. He did not know how that happened, whether it was from falling or something else, but he prayed there was no internal injuries. There was also the scar from earlier, the one she received while releasing the first trebuchet. She would always have it, he realized bitterly, though only visible to herself, and those she chose to show it to. It was jagged and pink, and just barely grazed the top of her breast band.

He looked away when modesty, decency and decorum made themselves known again.

He wandered, as somehow his anxiety mounted much more than it did when he and Cassandra searched. It was out of his hands now, and he didn’t know where he was going, or what he was doing really, until he heard someone call his name.

“You need healing,” the elven woman was telling him.

“Sabine,” Cullen said. “I’m fine. Others need healing.”

“You and Lady Cassandra just traveled through a snowstorm. You have to rest.”

Reluctantly Cullen let Sabine sit him down in one of the pitched tents so she could give him a potion. Once he drank it, he felt an immediate flood of warmth. “Rest now,” Sabine requested. “I’ll go see if Madame de Fer and Fiona need any help. I promise.”

It relieved him, if only a little. But still, Cullen felt that if he didn’t do something, he would go mad. He could have found her much too late. She was delirious, and he wondered if she truly thought she would die. Her hands had searched for something, or someone that wasn’t there. But she had known him, realized who he was before unconsciousness claimed her. She had said his name, for the first time, and if he could hear her say it again... 

He left his coin in his mantle, with her. He didn’t know if that had helped at all, but maybe it did. Maybe it did.

 

* * *

 

A lifetime passed, and Cassandra approached him.

_Maker, please let her live, let her be safe…_

“She will live.”

Cullen couldn’t hear the rest of what Cassandra was saying. All he knew was that she would live, and she would be alright. They had found her in time, and she would heal. He could hear his heart beating again.

“Leliana is keeping people away from her tent,” Cassandra explained. “If Lydia wasn’t our Herald before, she certainly is now." Cassandra looked ahead, dazed. "Maker, did you see the way they looked at her?”

“They knew what she did for us. And then she came back,” Cullen muttered.

Cassandra sighed, holding her head in her hands. “Is your faith ever tested, Commander?” she asked him.

“Almost every day,” he confessed.

“I suppose anyone’s would be. But when you found her...”

“Well, Cliodna always found a way,” Cullen mused.

“Who?”

“It’s a bit of a long story.”

Fiona emerged, and quickly Cullen stood. “How is she?”

“Alive, thanks to you,” she answered. “She…mentioned your name, Commander.”

He stared. “She…what? Why?”

“I don’t know. She was dreaming.”

Without another word Cullen walked over to were Lydia was, meeting Leliana on the way. She regarded him, kindly even. “I was hoping I could see her,” he said.

Leliana moved out of the way without question. But before he could open the flap, she stopped him. “I know you blame me for what happened,” she said. “If I didn’t pull my scouts back when my first agents went missing, then maybe they would have known. Maybe—“

“I don’t blame you Leliana. It’s the elder one, Samson, and the templars.”

Samson. Cullen clenched his fist as he thought of him, and what he had done. But it was useless to dwell on that now. “We can’t think of what ifs,” Cullen said. “Just move forward.”

“Things can’t get much worse now, can they?” 

“Let’s not push our luck.”

She smiled a little. “I suppose we shall argue later then?”

He returned the grin. “I suppose so.”

"I’m sorry I ever doubted," the spymaster confessed, guilt laden in her voice.

“She’s here now."

He asked her one more favor before he entered the tent. “Leliana, can you tell Roderick we found her?”

Leliana said she would do just that, leaving him to enter. Yet as he stood, his hand on the flap, he was reluctant. Did he belong, where she was? Eventually and without thinking, he decided to open the flap, promising he would stay only long enough to make sure she was alright. He nodded at Vivienne when he entered as she placed a cool compress over Lydia’s head. All the way up to her chin she was covered in blankets, her long hair loose, and black eyelashes resting against her cheekbones.

“Solas came earlier, wanting to see the mark,” Vivienne said.

“Is it alright?”

“He says it’s changed her, mentioned something about the rifts and the breach, some other nonsense about being able to harness the power…I don’t really know. Nothing that man says makes any sense.”

Her breathing was even as Cullen looked at her. “But, she’s not hurting, is she?”

“She’s peaceful now, but she was restless earlier. I’m not sure if she knows where she is. She might think she’s still back there. But she is resilient. I'll give her that.”

He thought about asking Vivienne if she really did call his name, but before he could, Vivienne delicately handed him his mantle back. He thanked her, and it looked just the same as he put it on that morning, a lifetime ago. He was lucky nothing happened to it during the attack. Lucky one of his few treasures in this world didn’t get ruined.

“It was a brave thing you did,” Vivienne said.

Cullen placed his mantle around his shoulders. The coin was still there. “She’s the brave one."

When Vivienne left to tend to others, Cullen sat on a wooden stool beside Lydia. Subtly, the color and rosy glow of her complexion was returning. A good sign, he thought. Slowly though she began to make little sighs and murmurs, unintelligible to him. When she began to thrash, albeit slightly, her unmarked hand appeared from under the blankets. Thinking she needed as much warmth as possible, he took her hand in is. It was still a little cold, even threw his glove. Vivienne, Fiona and the rest of the healers had done well, he noted, there was no trace of the blackish frostbite in her fingers. He began to warm it, slowly bringing it to his lips and blowing into them, the way he had been taught once before when he was a boy.

“Mhmmm.”

“Lydia?” Cullen stopped for a moment as she stirred, though her eyes did not open. “Lydia?” he repeated.

“Ash…so sorry…”

Ash?

She could have been speaking of anything, but Cullen suspected only one thing. It was a name. He had never heard her speak of any Ash before. Truly though, she never spoke of anyone to him, except for her mother and friend from the circle. Maybe Ash was someone else she knew in Ostwick.

But why would she be sorry?

“Stay...I must stay…He came for me…found me…safe.”

“Yes, you’re safe now,” Cullen said, taking her hand again, rubbing it with his to create friction. “You’re not there anymore. And I will not allow something like that to happen ever again. You have my word.”

“He looked so sad…wanted me to stay…need to bother him.”

Bother. He knew exactly who she was talking about now.

“Lydia, I’m here,” Cullen said gently, squeezing her hand.

Her eyelids fluttered, taking in her surroundings. He didn’t think she realized where she was. “It’s you,” she muttered.

She recognized him, at least. “It’s me.”

“Corypheus…the Elder One…” She was getting frantic, quickly Cullen explained to her that the avalanche caused him to retreat. “I promise you, you’re safe here. We’re safe because of you.”

She sighed, looking upward, and after a long moment she regarded her hand in his. When she inquired why, he quickly explained he was trying to warm it.

“Oh,” she murmured, but allowed Cullen to keep warming it, taking it to his lips so his breath could create more heat. He perhaps could have done the same for her other hand, but it was her marked hand. He had seen her hold it close to her, how self-conscious she was of it, and decided against asking. “How do you feel?” Cullen asked her instead.

“I feel like I’ll live now, because of you.” She turned her head toward him. “You couldn’t have known I would live. Why did you go look for me?”

“We looked through Haven. You weren’t there. Roderick said you might have fallen through a tunnel when the avalanche happened.”

And, he didn’t want to believe she was gone, not really. Cullen didn't tell her how he thought he would almost die, if something happened to her.

“Roderick?”

Cullen nodded. “Cassandra and I searched for you.”

There was a faint smile. “Thank you.”

“After everything you’ve done? I couldn’t give up so easily.”

“I don’t know how long I was walking. I…thought I was going to die for a moment.” She closed her eyes, biting back the memory. “You know,” she contemplated “you think of the strangest things…when you think it’s the end. Sometimes things you may not want to.”

He wasn’t sure the last time he had heard something so truthful.

“I thought maybe my mother would welcome me, or…Asher. But after what Corypheus said…I wasn’t sure. I don’t know what to believe anymore.”

“The Elder one is Corypheus?”

“Yes. He caused the breach. I stole the mark, by the way. I wish I knew how. I can't remember anything at the conclave. Save that he was there, and I left him.”

Who did she leave? “The Inquisition will help you learn,” Cullen said, wanting to comfort rather than ask questions. 

“Corypheus said the Heavens were empty,” she recalled. “But not seeing my mother, or Asher again…Maker I hope he’s wrong. Please be wrong.”

Asher. He might have been the one that she left. He must have been another mage, if he was there at the conclave with her. But whether he was a friend, family member, or lover, he had no idea. He would not ask. Like the "incident," in the circle that Leliana was made aware of, Cullen knew some things and memories should be hers and hers alone.

But Maker. She must have lost so much in her life. And he would make sure, do everything in his power, to make sure she never lost anything again.

“I can’t imagine what you saw,” he mumbled, unconsciously threading his fingers with hers. “I don’t want you to have to think of it now. Perhaps you should rest some more.”

He let go of her hand and began to rise. He was almost out the door when she told him to wait, and said there was one more thing she wanted to ask. "Anything at all," he replied.

She motioned to his coat. “Elderflower,” she mentioned. “Why?”

“Oh.” He couldn’t help but lightly laugh. His mother had told him when he was a boy that someday someone would notice. It appeared she was proven correctly. “It’s an old trick my mother taught me when I was young,” he reminisced. “We didn’t have much, but we did have elderflowers that grew around our home. They make your clothes fresh.”

“I see,” she drew out, rather coquettishly before closing her eyes. He was fairly sure she was asleep, until softly, she called his name again. A sweet sound, he thought.

Her blankets had fallen a little, he came over and readjusted them to give her some extra warmth. She peered at him, after he had finished. “I really don’t bother you?”

He bit back his laughter. “Do you think I would have ran in a snow storm if you did? Of course not.” 

That seemed to ease her, but even when she drifted off into a peaceful sleep, Cullen remained. He remained until Mother Giselle came in, and told him that she would watch her for the time being. He went back outside then, noticing the sun was beginning to rise. It cast the night away, turning the sky into a pinkish orange haze.  The breach had only left the faintest mark, but in this time that the breach remained, Cullen had forgotten how beautiful the morning sky was. It was mesmerizing. 

Leliana came near him, caught him looking at it. She began to admire the sky right along with him. “Have you ever seen a more beautiful color?”  

Cullen saw Lydia, opening her eyes again. Blue like the sea.

Cullen nodded. "I have."


	10. Freedom

He looked at Lydia so many times since the day she fell into his life.  

Now, he felt as though he was really seeing her. Maybe he really was seeing her for the first time. Haven had changed her, as it changed them all. But none of them were privy to what she had seen in the field before launching that final trebuchet. It lit a fire in her, made her determined to see this through, and it drove them all to Skyhold. Every success they had, they had because of her. And in everything but name, she led the Inquisition already. Leliana said as much as they were all standing in the courtyard, above the tents were the healers still tended those that needed healing. Lydia was with them, doing what she could. She had already done so much, more than any of them. Yet for her, it wasn't enough.

He saw no one else who could become their leader, their Inquisitor. Yet when he thought of asking her to do it, to take up the mantle, something held him back.

“Cullen? Is something wrong?”

Cullen didn’t immediately reply to Josephine. After a few heartbeats, he made his admittance. “I cannot in good conscience ask her to do this.”

“I would be worried giving this power to anyone,” Cassandra said.

He wasn’t worried. If her actions in the chantry were any testament, then Lydia would lead the Inquisition the way she lived her life: selflessly and without a care to herself. “It’s not that,” Cullen said. “If we ask her to do this, she will.”

“That is why she is the only choice," Leliana stated.

She was. But that didn’t mean Cullen could feel as Leliana did, that handing her this power now was something they should do.

“I believe in her,” Cassandra said, placing her hands on the stone walls.

Josephine agreed. “We all do”

“We do this, she loses her freedom.”

No one replied to him, and Cullen glanced down. By the fire she sat, sitting with Sabine and some of the other healers. They were laughing about something or other. After everything, she could still laugh as freely as she did before. Liberated, and with no restraint.  

“The Elder One already took her freedom away,” Leliana responded, after a long moment had passed.

“Do you understand, Leliana?” Cullen asked, his voice calm and unwavering. “We ask her to become the Inquisitor, and she will do it without thinking if it is the right choice for her. Did you see her in the chantry? How she ran to save us all without thinking of her escape? She will accept because she’ll believe there’s no other choice.”

“There is no other choice,” Leliana said simply. 

Cullen could have stood there, said everything else he was thinking, but he did not speak anymore. Not when Josephine said that their people had all but declared her their Inquisitor the night they knelt before her in the snow. And not when it was her own force of will that led them all the Skyhold, Leliana reminded them. Not when they all knew there was no one else they could trust with this power. 

Cassandra said she would ask Lydia first. Broach the topic, and see what she had to say about it. Even so, Cullen knew that as soon as Cassandra walked down the stairs to meet her, there would be only one outcome. 

And when Lydia stood, overlooking the men and women of the Inquisition, she made a promise.

“Fear is everywhere,” Lydia said, her voice breaking through the crowd, her words carrying through. “As a mage, I will stand with you all, not over you.”

They cheered. These men and women, her Inquisition, would follow her anywhere, do anything she required of them to do. They would lay down their life, if they had to. She was their symbol, their beacon in the darkness, and their hope. He hoped she knew how much they admired her. Maybe one day she would know how much he admired her.

He saw her, in the courtyard as she took her new title. He saw her become reborn.

 

* * *

 

She used to think the Circle was a prison. The stone walls confining and claustrophobic when all she wanted was to live without restraint. When she left for he conclave, she vowed to never let herself live inside a stone prison again.

Now, she would always have one thing that would keep her eternally chained.

Inquisitor Lydia Trevelyan.

Skyhold was her prison, the snow covered mountains would mock her, just as the view of the sea used to mock her in Ostwick. It wasn’t her magic that kept her chained now though. It was her mark, and her ties to Corypheus.

“Inquisitor?”

Lydia jumped at the sound of the familiar voice, turning when she saw that it was Cullen. “What are you doing up?" he asked. "It’s almost midnight. I thought Josephine provided you with temporary quarters.” 

It was late, and though Lydia had been provided lodgings, at least until her grand quarters were ready, she couldn’t sleep. She told Cullen her situation. “What are you doing up?” She countered.

“I was inspecting the armory, and the infirmary,” he replied.

“I…oh.” He was standing relatively close to her. There was that smell again, elderflower. She could have sworn the scent enveloped her as he carried through the snow. She also could have sworn that he came to her later. In the recess of her mind, she thought he held her hand. Some trick of the fade, she figured.

She still had to tell him how grateful she was, grateful that he found her, and how she had been meaning to tell him for a while. “I thought I dreamed I thanked you,” she admitted. “But I was out of it. Quite a bit out of it, I should say.”

“You…ah, never mind.”

She cocked her head. “Never mind what?”

“Truly. It wasn’t important. Perhaps I should head off, at any rate.”

He turned to head back to his office, but Lydia stopped him. “There is something else I wanted to ask,” she mentioned.

When Cullen walked back, she asked the question that had been egging in her mind since Cassandra came to her. “Was it easy to give this power to me?”

Cullen shifted his feet, but there was no hesitation when he spoke. “We needed a leader. You have proven yourself.”

“Even if I’m a mage?”

Cullen rubbed the back of his neck, and Lydia began to dread the answer, even if she already knew. He made his views abundantly clear in the chantry after the mages were recruited, after all. When he did not say anything, she admitted she worried now, what people would think of her. She always had, but since she had been named Inquisitor, those doubts increased tenfold.

“You have given us no reason to doubt,” Cullen said. “If I have given you any reason to doubt how I feel, then I am so sorry. Please do not doubt that I think you are the only one who could take on this role. I just—”

“Just what?” She inquired.

“I just didn’t want you to have to give up your freedom.”

“It’s a little ironic, for you to say that Commander.”

“Considering our pasts, I know.”

Lydia leaned against the stone wall, crossing her arms and breathing in the night air. Maybe she wasn’t a prisoner, not truly. Being a prisoner meant that there was no choice in the matter. And even if Lydia technically did not have a choice, she knew that if she did, she would always chose to stay. The men and women that fell at her feet after Haven, the ones that made her their Inquisitor, their blood now coursed through her veins. For them she would always stay.

“You know something?”

Cullen raised his eyebrows, asking her to continue. Lydia obliged. "I think there’s another meaning of ‘free,' different from what most people think.” It was a startling revelation, but one she was beginning to believe in. “We are all bound by something. Duty, honor, anything. I am bound to the Inquisition now, but I have been since I walked out of the fade. We all do what we must. Either I can accept it, or I won’t. If I don’t accept it, then I’ll never be free. I wasn't free in the Circle, not really, because I couldn't accept that. Now, here, I know what I need to do. And I will do it. There’s freedom in that.”

All the while, Cullen listened. “I never thought of it that way."

“You can’t let yourself be chained.”

He glanced, regretfully and sadly, at the mountains. “Sometimes they won’t relent.”

She didn't know how or why, but Lydia knew then that something held Cullen back and kept him chained. If only she knew what. If only he would let her help him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kind of a short chapter, but it bridges the beginning with the middle.  
> Comments are my heart :)


	11. Choices

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for discussion of inappropriate behavior and a ridiculously long word count for one chapter.

“Ambassador, may I ask why we can’t simply write to the Orlesian court and ask to attend the peace talks?”

Josephine swished her pen as she drafted a reply to yet another pompous dignitary. “If I do such a thing, then we will never secure an invitation. One does not simply ask to enter the Winter Palace.”

"Because that would be too simple," Cullen scoffed. 

He felt very out of place in Josephine's office as she and Leliana began discussing the peace talks at Halamshiral. “Send a missive to the empress,” he said, grasping onto the lining of his coat in a vain effort to prevent his hand from shaking. Maker it had been happening all morning and he couldn’t take any more of it.

“We have sent warnings to the empress, but we must go there ourselves to make sure the assassin is caught,” Leliana said, leaning over the ambassador’s desk.

“Send agents then,” suggested Cullen.

“I have sent spies to the Winter Palace, but I fear that won’t be enough.”

Josephine finished drafting and began to seal it. “The Inquisition must intervene. We know what will happen if we fail."

“I know what will happen ambassador,” Cullen said, “but my priorities now must be on Samson and the Red Templars. He corrupted the knights, and who’s to say that he still isn’t? We must find the supply and destroy it.” Cullen rubbed the base of his skull, thinking of everything that had to be done. “We need to secure an invitation on the peace talks. We need a lead on the demon army. We need to stop Samson, and stop the caravans from smuggling red lyrium.”

“We need coin,” Josephine said flatly. “Our charitable donations after Haven will only go so far. We’ve spent so much already repairing Skyhold.”

Cullen nodded in agreement. “Next time the Inquisitor is here, I’ll broach sending soldiers to work as caravan guards. The King’s Road still isn’t safe, after all.”

“That can’t get very much,” Leliana said. “Maybe we should—"

“We are _not_ planning an assassination for coin.”

“Why Commander, I would never let the Inquisition do the work of the Antivan Crows,” Leliana insisted.

“How about we discuss this during our next meeting?” Josephine asked, playing peacekeeper. “The Inquisitor has one scheduled tomorrow morning.”

“Tomorrow? What’s wrong with today?”

“She has still been helping the healers,” Cullen said.

“Still? She—"

“Today she wanted to speak to me about the templars, and tomorrow we can all discuss everything else. Now if you’ll excuse me…”

As Cullen left the ambassador’s office, the thousand things that needed to be done swam through his mind. He knew going to Halamshiral was important, and he knew how greatly the demon army needed to be stopped. But they had yet to have a way into the ball, or a lead for the demon army, at least not until Varric’s contact arrived, if they truly did know anything. But Cullen had promised Lydia he would do everything in his power to learn what happened to the templars. He already had a few theories as it was. The red templars had to have been corrupted at Therinfal, if that was were they retreated to from Val Royeux. They were left there, corrupted by Samson. 

Lydia chose Redcliffe, not Therinfal. If Lydia had gone there instead, if had she intervened, then maybe…

“What’s wrong Curly?”

Varric, who had taken up a place in Skyhold’s great hall, looked up at Cullen from his parchment. The more appropriate question might have been what wasn’t wrong, but Cullen brushed off his concerns, claiming that nothing was the matter.

“You were never good at lying.”

He wasn’t, not at all. “It hardly matters now anyway,” Cullen muttered. “I really should return to my duties.”

“Wait a minute, would you?”

Cullen waited as Varric asked, avoiding his gaze all the while. He expected a smart comment, a quip about how he, the ex-templar and Meredith’s knight captain allowed Lydia the mage to become the Inquisitor, but that wasn’t what he asked. With sincerity and real concern, Varric asked him, “How are you holding up?”

“I am…or, I have been better,” he answered with all the same sincerity.

Varric understood, giving a slight nod. “I’m sure we all have. Never thought I would see Samson again.”

“Neither would I. Not like that. I never thought the templars would—”

No, he didn’t want to see them again, but his mind flooded with the red lyrium. The hum was more powerful and sinister than anything from before, growing out of the templars as they attacked Haven. He had seen it in the fade almost every night since Haven, He didn’t want to see it now, not ever again.

Cullen put his hand to his forehead and shut his eyes as he willed the memories to dissipate. In the midst of this, he didn’t know Varric had come over to him not until he felt his presence.

“I’m sorry Curly,” he said.

“I am too.”

It wasn’t her fault. They had to make a choice, and she chose to save her own kind. What good had the Order done, really? Cullen had already made the realization that the Order he idealized as a young boy was not that same Order anymore. How was he different than the corrupted templars?

It could have been him, he bitterly understood. In another life, he could have been one of them, and Lydia Trevelyan would not save him.

“I really must return to my office now,” Cullen insisted, dismissing the thoughts.

“Uh, one more thing before you do,” Varric said. “I told you before that I know someone who has dealt with Corypheus before. I didn’t say who it was, but I think you better know that—"

“Varric,” Cullen began, “if you know someone who has information on Corypheus, they are more than welcome. The Inquisitor has said as much. Now really, I must go. The Inquisitor is coming later to speak to me and I have to prepare.”

Varric didn’t say a word of protest as Cullen cut through hallway, nodding at Solas along the way to get to his office. Once he was there, he studied the map that he had carefully laid out that morning, painstakingly smoothing it out while his hands refused to work. The red lyrium was coming from somewhere. The deep roads were the most likely option. The caravans with the smuggled red lyrium were cutting through the Dales, but—

“Sir?”

“What?” He slammed his hand against the wooden table with such force that the person who had entered was utterly terrified. He was only a boy, no older than twenty. Sheepishly, the boy extended a note to him.

“I’m sorry. I was concentrating, and you startled me, that’s all.” There was a pause before he asked, “What is your name?”

“It’s Ronan sir.”

“Ah, Ronan then. I’ll take the note.” Cullen didn’t glance at who it was from as he took it. “And again, I am sorry,” he said. “Perhaps knock next time?”

Ronan nodded, leaving the room, and leaving Cullen alone with a letter in his hands. He wasn’t sure who he thought the letter would be from, but there was a brief thought that perhaps it was from _her._ Elaine.

The last time he saw Elaine was the day he left for Kirkwall. He made it clear to her then, that whatever they were, they couldn’t continue. She understood that, but it was still possible she decided to write. It couldn’t be from anyone else, at any rate.

It was from someone else. Mia.

He didn’t think Mia would ever write to him again. He wasn’t even sure how Mia managed to know where to deliver the letter, but he remembered to do better than to ever doubt his sister. She was, without a doubt, the most stubborn woman he ever met, right next to his mother. Lydia was creeping on that list as well.

He bit his lip, willing his fumbling hands to open the letter. He took a deep breath, then read.

_Cullen,_

_I’m sure you are very busy, running an army, being a general, commanding forces and whatnot. But would it really have been so bloody hard to tell us you were still alive? If the Inquisition wasn’t on everyone’s lips, we would have never known that it’s brave commander even survived Haven._

The letter was typical Mia, and he could practically see his sister in the room with him. Of course, the Mia in his memory was much older now, in her thirty third summer. It was still good to know that even in that expanse of ten years, some things never changed.

He read on:

_You won’t listen if I ask you to try to not fling yourself in danger, but we all ask that you at least try to remain safe. For me, Rosalie, Branson, and his little one, who is on the way._

Andraste preserve him.

Branson was going to be father. His little brother. He would have a little niece or nephew.

“Cullen.”

Rylen stood at the door as Cullen stared at the letter in his hands. Time had stilled. Rylen hadn’t even budged until he commented that "someone was a little shocked.”

“It’s nothing,” Cullen insisted, sticking the letter in one of his books. “What is it?”

According to Rylen, Master Dennett was still trying to round up all the horses that he had the foresight to release before Haven was buried.

“So Dennett wants me to help him?” 

Rylen nodded. “You’re the only one who can ride all that well out of everyone. I would do it, but you know damn well I can’t get on a horse.”

Cullen didn’t have time or the will to explain to Rylen that he was going to have to get on a horse eventually, nor did he brag that being raised on farm in rural Ferelden rather than Starkhaven had merits. He instead made his way downstairs to the stables to help the horse master, resolving to pour over his map when he got back. He still had to talk to Lydia about the templars, but he at least had a little to fill her in on if he got back late. And if he didn’t have time, he would pour it over during the night. He wasn’t sleeping, at any rate, and when he did, the fade took him back, to the place he never hoped to be again. He didn’t want to relieve the past in the fade, not when he could spend his waking life protecting the future.

His brother had a child on the way. That was the future. The enormity of the Inquisition became even clearer with that fact. He couldn’t sleep, couldn’t do anything until the world was safe again, for that one promise of a better life.

He remembered what Lydia had told him, about freedom. Maybe knowing this, and doing everything in his power to protect that future was his freedom.

 

* * *

 

Skyhold was still in partial ruin, but Cullen had made sure that the infirmary was one of the first things that was ready. Lydia had spent almost every day there, and still she was seeing people she hadn’t yet seen. It wasn’t surprising, so many were wounded in Haven, and Sabine and the rest of the healers must have never slept to treat them all. The least Lydia could do then, was to help when she could.

All the while, Lydia learned. She saw how the healers channeled their energy to mend and renew, and it was from watching them that Lydia was first able to partially heal one of the wounded men. If something happened on the field to one of her friends, she had to know what to do. Now, she would.

In the infirmary however, Lydia was an extra pair of hands, and re-wrapped bandages among other things. As Sabine worked on another, Lydia promised she would rub the poultice on Kalen, one of the young boys wounded at Haven. Lydia hadn’t personally attended to Kalen yet, but she knew he needed the poultice that so many others needed, and she had seen it done enough times to know what to do. 

Kalen was only in his late teenage years,  with ash blonde hair. Lydia sat at his bedside, and he opened his eyes. They were a deep forest green, and as it dawned on him who she was, he had a look of awestruck shock and wonder. For such a young face, his eyes were so mature. Haven had made him seem older, but everyone who lived through Haven had lived through several lifetimes.

“Herald…I—“

“Kalen. Please call me Lydia. I’m here to help.” Tentatively Lydia turned down the blankets and beckoned him to sit up. Lydia unwrapped the large wrap around his stomach, revealing his burn. It was a fiery red, though healing from the poultice, and it covered a large area of his stomach.

The boy recoiled as Lydia held the jar of salve. “You must heal,” Lydia said soothingly. “This will help.”

He grimaced, but nodded, clutching onto the bed frame. Lydia rubbed the salve, adjusting him in the process to get his side were the trail of fire hit. Kalen bit his lip, biting back the cry of pain.

“All done,” Lydia said, closing the jar. “You are very brave, you know.”

Kalen fell back onto the bed, shaking his head. “I should have done something else…I should have…ah…” He touched his side, the poultice still burning him.

Regret washed over her, as did the agony for those they had lost, and those who carried the burden of knowing others died while they lived. Like the waves on the beach, Lydia knew it would always be relentless. “I know that feeling,” she admitted.

“It doesn’t get easier, does it?”

“No.” Nothing had gotten easier, and she couldn’t pretend that it ever would. “But we must live, even so. I think the others would want us to live.”

Kalen feel asleep not long after, considering what she had said. He had said the same things as many of the wounded said that afternoon as she continued to work, as well as earlier. For many of them, it was like they kept all their hopes and feelings bottled up, and it was only when Lydia asked that they allowed to pour forth their regrets. There were so many things that should have been done, so many lives that should have been there instead of them. And Lydia was there, to listen, and to tell them that despite what they believed, she could see their strength.

“Oh, it’s you.”

Now that had to be the last voice she ever expected to hear. “Hello Linnea,” Lydia greeted.

During the attack, Lydia had broken free from Cullen’s grasp to try to save Linnea. Despite everything that had happened, including the things in the dark future she would never know about. Lydia supposed she tried to save Linnea, even though she was a nasty blood mage in the future, because she wanted to believe Alexius’s blighted world had turned her into something she wasn’t, or that perhaps the Inquisition could redeem her. Maybe the real reason Lydia saved her was because she knew Linnea must have meant something to someone, and she had already lost so much. If she could prevent someone else from losing someone, then she would.

“I suppose I should thank you,” Linnea said from her bed. A little tartly maybe, but nevertheless, Lydia told her not to mention it.

“Suppose? If not for this woman, you’d be dead.”

A familiar ginger haired figured crouched down toward Linnea, checking the bandage on her side before determining it wasn’t due for another change just yet.

“Connor,” Lydia said. “I didn’t know you came with the mages.”

“I want to set things right, Herald,” Connor replied.

“It’s good of you to be here.”

Connor rose, contemplating as he regarded Lydia. “I was surprised you made the mages your allies.”

She shrugged. “Many were.”

“I just wanted to say, maybe you’re right. Maybe there is something good we can do.”

“There is,” Lydia said. “You’re doing something good now, helping the others who are hurt. Many wouldn’t.”

“I’m not one of the good ones Herald. You are.”

She wasn’t so sure about that as she left the infirmary for Cullen’s office. Today was the day they had promised to discuss the Red Templars, and as Cullen was always very punctual, she didn’t want to disappoint him by being late. Of course there was the fact that she feared she already disappointed him. She picked the mages after all. Had she picked the templars, they would be the ones at Skyhold. Their meeting wouldn’t even be necessary. Perhaps instead he could have been promoting a new Knight Commander.

What ifs were useless now.

Cullen wasn’t there when Lydia walked in. Instead, an elf in Circle robes was. She was pretty, with bright green eyes and long reddish brown hair that she kept in a side braid, similar to how Lydia wore hers at times. She was shocked to see Lydia, stammering greetings and reverences of how lucky she was that the Lady Inquisitor was gracing her presence.

“I didn’t realize you had a meeting with Commander Cullen,” Lydia said. “And uh…what do you have a meeting about?”

She was clearly one of Fiona’s people, but Lydia wasn’t sure what she was doing in Cullen’s office, as Fiona handled her own people. “I’m Melinda,” the woman said. “Sabine said the Commander deals with more…unsavory matters in his ranks. I wanted to see if I could talk to him.”

“What sort of matter? Perhaps I can be of help.”

Melinda looked down at her feet, turning a thousand shades of crimson. “I don’t want to concern your worship with my troubles.”

“It’s all right Melinda,” Lydia said, as gently as she could.

“I’m sure you have better things to do.”

“I want all my people safe and comfortable. Please, tell me your troubles.”

Melinda half smiled. “Well,” she began, conceding. “I know you came from the Circle, so you understand that it’s been hard for some of the templars to adjust. The Commander has made it clear this isn’t the Circle, but there’s been this one templar that…has had a hard time.”

“How so?”

She nervously tugged at her hair, a habit that Lydia recognized she often did. “Perhaps it’s easier telling another woman. There is a templar that has been making…advances. I thought I could ignore it, but today he…”

She motioned to her derriere, and Lydia got the message.

Melinda continued to tell her side of the story. “I told him no, I wasn’t interested, but he doesn’t seem to know what that means, or doesn’t care either way.”

Lydia shook her head. “I don’t know what Circle he came from, but he disgraces the Order if he thinks he can do such a thing. What’s his name?”

“Nilen, my lady.”

“Nilen?” She knew a templar named Nilen, but perhaps it was a coincidence. “Does he have brownish blonde hair, and brown eyes? Gruff voice too?”

Melinda nodded, and that Lydia came to the realization that this wasn’t a coincidence. “I’ll take care of it,” she promised. “I’m sorry you had to deal with this.”

With the fury of a tempest, Lydia stormed from Cullen’s office to the pitched tents in the lower courtyard where some of the soldiers were stationed. She asked around for Nilen, and eventually she was pointed to a tent to the right, the furthest one from the stairs. “Nilen?” she yelled, ripping opening the flap to the tent. Sure enough, there he was, just as she remembered him, and surrounded by two other soldiers, and playing Wicked Grace. It figured. He always shrieked his duties, even in the circle.

When Nilen saw her, he dropped his cards. “What are you doing here?” he demanded.

“What am I doing here?” she bellowed. “I’m the Inquisitor, you know. The leader. Get over here Nilen, I have something to say to you.”

“I report to Commander Cullen,” he said in such a nonchalant manner. It made Lydia want to slap him.

“And Commander Cullen reports to me,” she informed him. “Get up. Now.”

A few other soldiers had begun to watch the show as Nilen sloppily made his way out of the tent to Lydia. Even though Lydia wasn’t too much shorter than him, he crossed his arms at her as if he towered over her height. He eyed her, up and down, mocking her. “Your worship.”

“Nilen,” she mocked right back. “I never wondered what happened to you after Knight Commander Jovan shipped you out of Ostwick. But if you are to remain in the Inquisition, then you will not touch any woman who does not want it. Nor will you make any lewd comments as you used to do to Willa and the others in Ostwick. All of that ends today. Do you hear me?”

“Oh,” he muttered. “You must be referring to that pretty dark elf girl. I thought it was obvious she—“

“You will not touch her, or anyone else.” Lydia hissed.

The bastard had the gall to appear amused. “Aw. Someone is angry.”

“You will respect those that are here Nilen.”

Nilen cocked an eyebrow. “Maybe now I can see why Asher liked you. Bet he would like you better now.” He eyed her body up and down, which was much trimmer since the last she saw him. Running for your life almost every day tended to do that.

As hard as it was though, Lydia ignored it. “Listen to me Nilen,” she threatened, pointing her finger at him. “I have not had a very good week. I have lost too many people. I have lost my horse, and I may also lose my sanity as well. Now, I will not allow the women of this Inquisition, or anyone else for that matter, lose their dignity because some sexually deprived templar thought he had the right to hit their rear.”

“You don’t want anyone to lose their dignity?” he fired. “I’m losing my dignity right now!”

“I don’t know why you came here Nilen, but—“

“Well, if I didn’t come here, I would have been blown up! Or, I would have been shitting red lyrium! But maybe shitting red lyrium is better than having to deal with some mage tart who thinks she good enough to—”

“ _Nilen_!”

Lydia thought she carried a tempest when she stormed down, but that was before she saw Cullen heading over, breaking through the crowd of onlookers. His face was contorted into a look of utter rage, contempt, and fury as he demanded to know what in the name of the Maker Nilen thought he was doing. Facing his superior, in all areas, including rank, looks, attitude, and as a decent human being, Nilen’s bravado went poof.

“Commaner,” Nilen stammered. “I was—“

“Disrespecting your Inquisitor, who saved your life, for what little worth it is,” Cullen remarked. “I don’t care what you say to me Nilen, but if you disrespect her again—”

“Look at us!” Nilen exclaimed suddenly. “This…girl… is our Inquisitor? A mage? Think about everything she’s done. She brought in the apostates and expects us to treat them like allies, when they should be our prisoners! She hangs around with that Tevinter magister, and lets that _thing_ hang around here!”

Lydia’s blood began to boil. “Dorian is a mage from Tevinter, not a magister. And Cole is not a thing, he is a boy. And both of them have done more here than you have ever done in your life.”

“You…mage whore!”

Lydia gasped as Nilen came near her, and she barely managed to duck out of the way before she knew he was lunging himself at her. Yet with reflexes quicker than she knew he had, Cullen’s hands were on Nilen, pushing him aside as some of the other soldiers assisted their Commander, grabbing Nilen and pushing him down.

Cullen came near him, shaking his head in contempt. “She could have killed you and it wouldn’t even have been worthy enough to call a loss.”

“Commander, I—“

“You are dismissed.”

Nilen’s mouth dropped. “What?”

“You heard me. You are dismissed. I expect you out by tonight.”

“Commander, if I’m not here, then I won’t have any wages. How will I get—”

“You should have thought of that before you disrespected your Inquisitor, and the mage that you harassed. You disgrace the Order, and you disgrace the Inquisition. I will not have you in this army.”

Nilen was never a man. He was a boy who reviled in abhorrent things, but he had transformed from a vile boy into one that was both unsure and frightened. “Wait,” Lydia said, coming to Cullen. “Let him work outside of Skyhold.”

Cullen was bemused. “What?”

“He was always a bad Templar, but Harrit has mentioned to me that he needs more iron and other raw materials for the new recruits.” Lydia said. “I’ve been meaning to ask you anyway to send a few men to the Hinterlands for that purpose. Let Nilen go with them to do the grunt work. We need all the pairs of hands we can get. And if he displays the attitude he had today, I’ll kick him out faster than he can say ‘blessed are the peacekeepers.’ All right?”

Cullen conceded, motioning to one of his men to tell Nilen what the course of action would be. The soldier nodded, following Nilen to tell him the news.

“All right, the show is over!” Cullen announced to the line of people who had done a poor job of masking the fact that they were watching the spectacle unfold. Once they had cleared out, for the most part anyway, Cullen profusely apologized for what had happened.

“You don’t have to apologize,” Lydia said.

“I do. I told the soldiers in Haven that they were to respect you, and when we brought in the mages I only reiterated to the templars that this wasn’t the circle. Things like…common decency were overlooked.”

“You know what started this then?” Lydia asked.

Cullen nodded. “I was with Dennett. Rylen overheard the conversation, and ran and told me about what happened.” He shook his head in disgust. “Who was the mage? She is owed an apology, at the very least.”

“Melinda,” Lydia answered. “I think she’s still in your office.”

The two took the short walk over. Melinda was still there when they made it, and Cullen must have uttered a thousand apologies.

“I just didn’t want him to do this to anyone else,” Melinda explained. “He didn’t hurt me, not really.”

“He won’t do this again, and no one else will,” Cullen promised. “I’ll make sure of it.”

Melinda bade her thanks before leaving. As soon as the door closed, Cullen began to rub his forehead. “Maker…” he muttered. “I’ll have to tell the soldiers about this. I would have never thought that… _Maker_.”

“Our men are good people. I believe that. Nilen was always a pompous, disrespectful ass, that’s all,” Lydia said.

“You knew him?”

Lydia nodded. “I had no idea he was here though. It’s a wonder I didn’t run into him earlier. It’s a wonder Melinda was the first one he accosted like that.”

“If I would have known…How can someone think they have the right to…? And what he said to you was…”

She came to his desk. “Cullen. Please don’t fret over me. A lot worse has been said about me, I’m sure.”

“Why did you stop me from completely removing him from the Inquisition?”

The question surprised her, but she answered truthfully. “Aside from the fact that we really do need to gather more materials, there are so few members of the Order left. And, well…”

He sighed, closing his eyes. “These are the men that represent the templars now, aren’t they?”

She felt so stupid. “I’m sorry,” she muttered.

“To think that being a templar was once an honor." He shifted away from her and to the small window that overlooked the courtyard.

“Was it always though?” She wondered. “No one considers being a mage an honor, because no one chooses to be a mage. And hardly anyone chooses to be a templar.”

“When I was eighteen and sat my vigil, I thought there would be no greater honor given to me.”

She looked away from his face, her eyes drifting towards his steel gauntlets adorned with the symbol of the templars. She had a hunch before that he had chosen this life for himself. He proudly displayed it, after all. He was an anomaly in the midst, and she felt even stupider for her brash tongue, disregarding the templars when he had once been one. He still was one, underneath the title of Commander. “Why did you choose to be a templar?” She asked him suddenly.

Without hesitation, he answered her. “I could think of no better life that to protect others.”

“From magic and mages?”

“Not exactly,” he quickly replied. His eyes shifted, and he carelessly ruffled through his hair. There was a slight twinge of a smile, and Lydia knew he was reminiscing of younger days. “When I was a boy,” he began to tell her, “we had little. But my mother read to us. Every night we would hear about the knights of old. I wanted to be like them, I think. Of course, we didn’t know any knights of old in Honnleath. The closest thing we had to them were the templars in our local chantry. I knew they protected people, and I thought I could do the same when I became older. Funny how things turn out, isn’t it?”

“You’re here,” she said. “You can protect. You’ve already protected so many.”

Something she could not place was hidden beneath the amber eyes. "Thank you.”

He had to explain to her that he had planned on debriefing her about what he knew about Samson and the Red Templars, but he was called away to help Dennett before he could get any work done. “No trouble,” Lydia said. “Let’s just leave things now. Today has been long anyway. Perhaps we can talk tomorrow in the war room?”

“It has been a long day,” he agreed.

With the sunlight that streamed through the window, Lydia began to notice things about Cullen that she hadn't picked up on before. She noted he had much more stubble than usual, with his healthy five o’clock shadow much more apparent and a bit darker than the gold wave. His eyes were tired, and the telltale hint of purple underneath them let her know the man wasn’t getting much sleep. There was also his frame. Cullen’s stance may have had strength and vigor, but there was something in the way he shifted, and something in the way he grasped onto the lining of his coat that made her think he was putting on a façade that all was not as well as he wanted her to believe. “Are you doing well?” she asked him.

His brows furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“Well,” she began, “the Inquisition was only supposed to stop the mage and templar war. You probably didn’t think you would be running an army to defeat an ancient Tevinter magister. How has been training the army? Preparing the men?”

“Does anyone ever expect to run into an ancient Tevinter magister?” he pointed out. “Truly, it has been no trouble. When Cassandra offered me this chance, I took it knowing I would have to do any duty required of me. The Inquisition may now serve a different threat than what anyone could have predicted, but I will carry on with any duties that I must. But what about you?” he asked, turning it around. “I know you’ve been in the infirmary often.”

“I have. Thank you for making sure it was ready, by the way. It’s been difficult on the wounded. They feel guilty they lived when others didn’t.”

“I…that is never an easy thing to feel.”

It wasn’t, not at all. “Most of those wounded though will pull through,” she said. “We only lost a couple, including Roderick.”

“He believed, in the end.”

“I hope others will.”

“They will. They do. Morale has improved since you became Inquisitor.”

“After today, it’s good to hear,” she admitted. “I only wish more good would come.”

“Well, maybe you can follow me?”

Not sure what he had up his sleeve now, Lydia followed Cullen outside, past the courtyard were a few vendors had set up. That wasn’t where Cullen wanted to take her, however. “I was helping Dennett round up a few of the horses,” he said. “And, I…“

She stopped in her tracks. “Pepper. You found him.”

“Well, he found me. You were right though. I made a friend for life.”

Lydia bounded for the stables, and as soon as she found her horse, she buried her head in his mane. “I thought I lost you,” she whispered, patting his back and breathing in his earthy scent. “I’m so glad you’re here. What good is an Inquisitor without her steed anyway?”

She muttered thanks after thanks to Cullen, who came over to stroke Pepper’s mane. “Just like Cliodna,” he muttered.

She handed Pepper a sugar cube. “Who’s Clodnee?”

“Oh, uh…” Cullen stammered. “I didn’t mean…well, it’s nothing bad, I promise. There’s a legend in Ferelden, about a woman named Cliodna.”

“What?”

“Clee-owd-nah,” he pronounced. “She was an Avvar priestess, and in the story, she had dark hair and a white grey horse. My mother used to tell it to us when we were children. There’s a part in the story where she becomes temporarily separated from her mare, but he finds her.”

She patted Pepper again. “So the story is about a woman looking for her horse?”

“There’s more to it.”

“How much more?”

“I can’t remember it all,” he said, slightly blushing. “But I suppose you always reminded me of her. You two have the same determination, and freedom.”

She remembered the chains, the ones he carried. “You say that like you’re not free."

“Maybe someday.”

“It will come,” she promised.

“I hope so.”

Believe it Cullen, she thought as he walked away. _Believe it._


	12. The Instigator

“Inquisitor, you are very talented at throwing fire, but not all demons are vulnerable to it. You must learn how to channel frost. It’s one of the cornerstones of magical power.”

For the better part of the day, Lydia had been practicing frost magic with Vivienne, but the only thing she had to show for it was a thin sheen of ice on her hand, which was nothing even remotely close to Vivienne’s powerful Winter’s Grasp.

“Winter,” Vivienne beckoned. “Feel the ice through your veins.”

Lydia closed her eyes, and images of herself walking through the snow flooded her vision. Unpleasant as those memories were, she tried to channel that energy and those feelings. Ice, winter, chill, cold. All she had to do was feel the ice, summon the cold.

Ice was at her fingertips. She was doing it, she got it...

“Oh my.”

She opened her eyes. Her gloved hand was utterly soaked.

“You almost had it,” Vivienne said. “then you went back to fire and melted your progress. Try again, and keep it going.”

Closing the fade rifts hadn’t been too bothersome once she knew how to handle them, but as Lydia and her party made their way to the Fallow Mire to locate Cullen’s missing soldiers, a few of the demons that spewed from the rifts had been the cause of quite a lot of grief. Fire magic wasn’t the best thing to throw at a Rage Demon, and it was fortunate Lydia had taken Vivienne with her, as the enchanter’s penchant for ice magic had made quick work of those loathsome things. Lydia also took along Cole and Blackwall, and all three of her party members managed to work together well, despite the fact that both Blackwall and Vivienne were wary of the “demon.” (Time and time again, Lydia had to assure them Cole wasn't.)

Lydia still knew she had to be prepared for anything, so she asked Vivienne if she could assist her with learning a few of her techniques. Graciously, Vivienne agreed.

“May I ask you something darling?” Vivienne asked as Lydia plopped on the grass, meaning to take a quick break. “Why do you doge out of the way of an incoming attack with so little poise? There are ways to doge that are much more graceful.”

“What’s wrong with the way I dodge?” she defended, “I see an enemy, I duck. Always has worked for me in the past.”

“Inquisitor, one day you might not be able to duck out of the way in time. Here, watch this. It’s much more efficient than shrieking like a seagull and moving to the left.”

Suddenly Vivienne darted across the courtyard in a flash of white, going from one end to the other in a matter of seconds.

Lydia was slack-jawed. “How did you do that?”

“It’s called the Fade Step. I’ll show you how to do, it as soon as you master Winter’s Grasp. Now go on. Show me what you’ve learned.”

Fire was all her, and it was everything she was. But it was not impossible to channel frost. The strength was inside her. The strength to overcome.

_Ice, Winter, Chill._

Feeling the buildup on her fingertips, Lydia cried out as she threw the ice onto one of the training dummies, knocking it backward and completely freezing it. To the sidelines, Vivienne nodded in approval. “Very good,” she complimented. “Now do it again, until you can’t get it wrong.”

Not being able to get it wrong took one more hour, and after that Vivienne attempted to show her how to Fade Step. Lydia didn’t have Vivienne’s finesse by the time she thought practice should end, as she only made it a few meters across the courtyard. Vivienne however assured her she could get there in no time.

“You know dear,” Vivienne said as Lydia gathered a few remaining lyrium potions. “I think you should take on a magical school.”

She was so busy with her inquisitorial duties, Corypheus, and not dying that learning a whole new school seemed an impossible feat. Lydia pointed all that out to Vivienne.

“You must set an example for all mages to follow,” Vivienne replied. “Frankly dear, I’m shocked you haven’t taken one already.”

“You’re a knight enchanter, aren’t you?”

Proudly, Vivienne nodded. “It’s a highly difficult school, one for leaders. Perhaps it’s something you can learn. The chantry usually reserves it for the mages in their inner circle, but I can write to Commander Helaine. She is a wonderful teacher, and if Josephine calls a few favors, I’m sure she would be more than willing to teach you.”

Lydia wasn’t sure flinging around a spirit blade was exactly her style. While some preferred to be in the center of battle, Lydia preferred to be an observer, flinging her magic and making sure everyone was protected. “I’m not sure,” she admitted. “There are so many schools out there.”

“Do not even consider necromancy," Vivienne severely warned. "I know the Trevelyans hail from Nevarra, but imagine the scandal that will come with it. That fact that the Tevinter studies it is bad enough.”

Lydia defended her friend. “Dorian was interested in learning the craft, he told me so.”

“You are the Inquisitor. You are a leader. If you are to take on a craft, it must be something respected. You must be envied, feared, and admired.”

“I don’t think people should fear me,” Lydia said. 

"There was no leader in this world who hasn’t been feared.”

Lydia supposed Vivienne was right when she took the long walk back to her quarters, shutting the door with a loud thud. She still wasn’t used to this, having a room of her own. She didn’t even think she needed one, but Josephine insisted that the leader of the Inquisition have a space of her own. Lydia was glad Josephine did, for Lydia never had anything in her life so grand as her room in Skyhold.

In Ostwick, apprentices had to share rooms, but once the Harrowing was passed and mages became fully inducted to the Circle, more private quarters became available. That privacy however, only extended to a stone wall that separated the different wings of a single room. Lydia remembered the nights Willa spent with Clarence, while she was in the other wing. Try as Willa might, she could never keep herself fully quiet. All the while there was Lydia, her head buried under a mountain of pillows, trying to make herself content with thoughts of Asher. But this room, the one she had now, was utterly magnificent, and at least three times the size as her old room in the Circle. Josephine had spared no expense, and when Lydia told her she was fond of the color blue, the ambassador clearly took that to heart. The love-seats next to the fire were a deep royal blue, and the color matched the elegant bedspread that laid atop Lydia’s enormous bed. No more tiny and cramped bed that barely fit her anymore. Instead she had a large and detailed canopy bed that could fit five people, if she wished it. When she laid down at night, she imagined that’s what laying in the clouds felt like.

Her favorite part of the room though, was the two balconies. When she slept she kept both of the balcony doors open, the one to the east and the one straight north, eager to see the stars and adoring the cool night air. She loved her view of the mountains, and loved her view of the courtyard as well, especially in the early morning, when the Inquisition was starting to awaken. If there truly was a Maker, she imagined she felt as he must at times, looking below to what he created. Utter blasphemy, but a compelling thought.

There was also a desk for Lydia to write and go over reports, and to the other corner, the one by the east window, a vanity. Josephine had even stocked it with a few perfumes, lip stains, and rouges, for those moments that Lydia had to meet important dignitaries. There was one perfume that smelt of jasmine, and Lydia had taken the habit of wearing it around Skyhold. Perhaps it was because her mother always smelt of jasmine. For the fun of it, Lydia sprayed herself now, enjoying the aroma.

Along with the makeup and perfumes, Josephine had also provided Lydia with more clothes than she ever owned in her life. Dresses, casual outfits, overcoats, pantaloons, silken pajamas. They were clothes that were a thousand shades of blue, and every color in between. When Josephine first showed her, Lydia was gobsmacked, and she couldn’t help but wrap the ambassador in a warm embrace. Never in her life had she owned clothes that could make her feel like a woman, and not just another mage at the Circle. She never realized how precious the simple joy of dressing oneself could be, until it was taken away.

Itching to try out more of her pajamas, Lydia drew a bath in the backroom. That was another aspect of her new room that she adored. No more waiting for a turn in the Circle lavatories. She had access to a hot water and bathing basin whenever she wished, and since Lydia was in Skyhold, she had taken full advantage of it. Stripping her clothes, she got into the water, wiping away the grime and sweat and thoroughly washing her hair. It had gotten long since she last trimmed it, all the way to her lower back, and once she had gotten out of the tub, she realized how heavy it was, especially wet. It would also take an eternity to dry.

After towel drying her hair as best to her ability, Lydia slipped on a black silken nightgown that she had laid out. She knew she should probably go over a few of Leliana’s reports on the Exalted Plains, or Josephine’s notes about Ferelden giving the Inquisition Alexius for judgement, (she noted that she would have to speak to Dorian about it) but Lydia wasn’t sure she wanted to do anything really, save enjoy simply being. She hadn’t had that luxury in what seemed like forever. Deciding to perhaps read over a few things before reading for pleasure, she strolled over to her desk to look at what had accumulated since she was gone. In the midst of reports and records from the infirmary, there was a letter from Willa.

She considered herself so far removed from the Circle now that anything from it was a reminder of how things used to be. Never the less, she read.

_Dear Lydia,_

_I honestly wasn’t sure if you would get this. I wasn’t even sure you would want to write me back. Still, I knew I had to try._

_Well…we heard. We all heard the stories. They say you walked out of the fade, and Andraste was the one who delivered you. Then there’s what they say about Haven, and what you did. I’m not sure if Andraste really did shield you, honestly. I know you probably don’t believe it was her. You probably would just wave your hand and say it was luck. And now, there’s a mage at the head of the new Inquisition. You. Lady Lydia Rowena Theodosia Trevelyan of the Ostwick Circle of Magi. (Yes, I used your full name.) I’ll stop talking about that, I know you probably got a lot of people at your beck and call, all telling you what you should do and how important your job is, so I’ll drop that. Just know, I believe in you. We all do here._

_In other matters… Lydia, I swear to the Maker, the Dalish gods, the stone, and whatever other religions there are in Thedas that I’ve wanted to tell you how sorry I am since you first left to go to the conclave, and not just because you’re now important, or whatever. I know you said you left because there was nothing for you here anymore, but I also know you left for me. You always were a good friend, even though I didn’t deserve it. It’s not fair that you went to the conclave instead of me, and this is what happened to you. But maybe it was meant to be this way. I think if I was at the conclave, I wouldn’t have made it out. Now, because of you, my child may have a future._

_I miss him so much. You must miss Asher, don’t you? I am so sorry I called it what I did._

_A lot of people will say you can’t do it, because you are a mage. Well, I know that’s not true. You can._

_My love, Willa._

_PS: In three months, the love of my life, other than Clarence, will arrive. I’ll write to you when they come. If he’s a boy, he will be Clarence. If she is a girl, Clarice. Clarice Lydia._

_PSS: Again, Lydia, I am so sorry. You don’t have to forgive me._

She remembered what happened, when Willa found out about Asher. When they all found out.

“You…how could you?” Willa shouted at her. “You knew this was impossible. You used to make fun of the girls who fancied the templars! He could never have been the one, not when he’s a templar and you’re a mage. It was your fault Lydia! Why did you lead him on? Why did you ever think this could work? Were you jealous of Clarence and I? Did you want someone so bad you lured him in and convinced him this was acceptable?”

Lured. As if she was a predator. As if she was the dirty one.

She walked outside to her balcony, the one that overlooked the mountains. She didn’t care what the rest of the Circle called her, but hearing Willa, her dearest friend, jeer at her, was too much. She lost her lover and best friend that day they all found out. She hated that she felt this way, absolutely abhorred it, but when the Circle was attacked by rebels, that last time before Lydia left for the conclave, and Willa’s lover Clarence died, Lydia was almost glad. Not that he died, but that at last, Willa knew how she felt when she lost Asher. It still made her so ashamed, that such a thought would run through her head. Maybe that was part of the reason she left for the conclave in place of Willa. That, and she truly did believe that Willa’s baby deserved to grow up in a world where there was no fighting, and no war.

She could still make that promise. Perhaps now she had a better chance at it.

She drifted over back inside, to her vanity to comb through her long hair. She had had her long hair since she could remember, and she wasn’t sure if she would be Lydia Trevelyan without the long strands of waves down her back. Vivienne may have chided her about her hair, about how someone could grab onto it and knock her down, but Lydia couldn’t imagine herself without it.

But she wasn’t just Lydia Trevelyan anymore. She was the Inquisitor. And if she was honest, she hadn’t been that Lydia Trevelyan, the one who thought there would be no joy when Asher was gone, for a long time.

She wasn’t going to run away from her new self, not anymore. Digging for that pair of scissors in her vanity, she began to cut.

 

* * *

 

It occurred to him much later that he could have gotten away with not even mentioning this to the Inquisitor. He could sweep it under and move on, pretend it never happened. That option however, wasn’t very fair to her at all, and the messenger said she would arrive at his office at noon. She must have thought he wanted to talk to her about Samson, as he was still investigating Therinfal and the Red Templars. That wasn’t it though, not for today anyway.

To give his hands something to do, he began organizing the large accumulation of books and papers that had gathered on his desk. He paused before placing _The Art of War_ _and Battle_ back onto his bookcase. Mia’s letter was inside, where he stuffed it originally after first reading it. He hadn’t forgotten about it since he first opened it. He thought about it every day. He simply wasn’t sure what he could say to his family.

He stuffed the letter into his mantle, next to his coin. He resolved to find a way to say exactly what he needed to say.

“Commander, you wanted to see me?”

Cullen turned from the bookcase to where Lydia was, waiting patiently behind his desk. She wore her riding outfit, black breeches, boots, and a matching jacket. A red scarf around her neck added a bit of color. Her hair was down, and newly cut. Blackish brown hair that used to hang loose down her back or in a long braid was now clipped to her shoulder blades. Now that her hair was shorter, it became more apparent that she had quite a bit of natural curl, though not as much as he did. Though while he now hid his natural hair by combing and pomade, she certainly had no qualms with showing off hers.

He must have spent more time surveying her appearance than he thought, as she rested her hands on her hip, meaning to tease. Cullen immediately tried to articulate what he wanted to say. “Inquisitor,” he tentatively started, “I was waiting for you.”

“You seem unusually nervous.”

“Do I?” She was seeing right through him, but then again, as Varric liked to mention, he was not skilled in the art of hiding his emotions.

“You must also know the crown of Ferelden is giving me Alexius for judgement, as acknowledgement of our aide in Redcliffe,” she said. “You must have thoughts on the matter. Leliana certainly does,” she added flippantly.

She must have walked in expecting a lecture of sorts on the proper measures of justice and retribution. He clarified that what she chose to do with Alexius was her choice. She, not him, was the one that suffered in that twisted future. “No, that’s not the matter I wanted—needed to discuss,” he clarified. “While you and the others were in the Fallow Mire, we had a visitor. From the Ostwick Circle.” As he spoke, her eyes were unreadable, she didn't so much as even breathe. “It was Knight Captain Darius.”

Now, she began to shift, crossing her arms and guarding herself. _The incident. The one Leliana mentioned in Haven. She thinks I know._ “He handed me your phylactery,” he blurted.

It was subtle, but there was the briefest flash in her eyes, one of relief. “That’s…interesting,” she mumbled after a pause. “I have never heard of Knight Captain Darius. He must have come in after I left for Ferelden. Did he say anything else?”

He considered this, very carefully, before answering. “No.”

That wasn’t necessarily true though. Darius was quite the talker and gossiper, which was unusual for one from Ostwick, at least according to Leliana. But while Darius was eager to mention that Lydia’s past in the circle wasn’t a completely clean one, Darius didn’t know exactly what happened. Cullen tried to brush it off, it must have been nothing if it wasn’t worth mentioning. In response, Darius rolled his eyes, claiming that Knight Captain Cullen from Kirkwall wouldn’t ever believe that.

There was another moment of long and stilted silence. To make use of this time Cullen picked up the small black box where Lydia’s phylactery was. He hadn’t had any others in his possession, as when they recruited the mages, Fiona explained that most of the phylacteries that belonged to the rebels were either lost, destroyed, or impossible to find. Cullen allowed Fiona to hold onto the few that remained. It was an alliance, after all. He had to show his trust, per Lydia’s wishes. Frankly though, he had no desire to be in control of them. And with the Inquisitor’s, there was only person who should ever hold hers.“This belongs to you,” Cullen said, extending it to her.

She did not take it. “I want you to have it.”

He tried to make that clear, and she still did not take it.

She crossed her arms. “Maybe you should keep it.”

“I…what?”

“Keep it.”

Truly, he hadn’t been this perplexed in a long time. He thought she would be angry that Darius had first given it to him. At the very least. But this?

He placed it back on his desk as if touching it would burn him. “Really,” he stated. “It’s yours.”

“Why are you so insistent on giving it to me?”

“I…I’m not your jailer,” he stammered. “And…I thought this was what you would want.”

“I never thought of you as my jailer. I understand if you need to keep it. Just think of how easier life would have been if you had this after Haven. If something like that happens again, you have a way of finding me.”

“I have considered as much,” he revealed. “But you always have a company of three others with you. It’s…”

“It’s what?” she prodded.

“I don’t feel comfortable keeping it.”

Without warning there was a stabbing pain behind his eyes, and he clamped his eyes shut as the sensation swelled and throbbed. When he awoke that morning, he was able to place on his armor with no trouble, and with no shaking hands, he thought today would be a good day. He should have realized there was no good days with this. Only mediocre days, and bad days.

She came near him, and they were almost a breath apart. “Are you all right?” she murmured.

He opened his eyes as the pain lessened. Her brows furrowed in concern.

“A headache. It’ll pass.”

He used that excuse far too often, in fact he just used it in the war room the other day when she noticed how he kept rubbing his temples. Nothing went unnoticed with Lydia. “Maybe you should go to the healers,” she suggested.

“They won’t be able to help me,” he dismissed.

“Sabine is a wonder when it comes to potions. I’m sure she can find something.”

“Do not concern yourself with me.”

He knew he was too harsh, he knew it as soon as he said it. Yet when she recoiled, shame flared through him. Lydia averted her eyes away from him. “If you want me to take it, I will,” she said, taking the black box and stuffing it in her jacket pocket. “I hope you feel better Commander.”

“I…wait.”

Somewhat reluctantly, she faced him again. “Your hair is nice,” he said, like the complete fool he was.

She touched the loose strands that fell, the ones that framed her face. “Thank you.”

_I have to tell her, I have to tell her._

 

* * *

 

In the next few days, Cullen sent his soldiers to the Exalted Plains ahead of Lydia and her party. Josephine thought going there to stabilize the region was a good idea, as it could gain some much needed clout for the Orlesian courts. The crown had yet to deliver Alexius for judgement, so Lydia spent those few days before leaving to the plains pestering Varric. She pestered and pestered about the upcoming guest that he was bringing, the one who had information on Corypheus, but his lips remained sealed on who it was. He did say however that he, or she, was on route, and it was only a matter of time before they arrived at Skyhold.

She kept away from Cullen’s office, remembering his shortness when he gave her the phylactery. Forget, she told herself. Forget him.

It persisted still.

In the meantime, she spent time training, becoming more acquainted with the cold and how to use frost magic. She managed a long and dynamic Fade Step, and Vivienne praised her for being a quick study. She also wrote Willa back, and attended to other correspondences that Josephine brought her way. She was so busy that in her one moment of free time, she visited Dorian in the library. They chatted about their days and the Inquisition as they shelved books back into their proper places. “There is one more thing,” she at last brought up, as she had been avoiding it for a while. “See—“

“I already know. The Inquisition, you, will judge Alexius.”

He didn’t even so much as look up at her from the shelves. “I hoped to be the one to tell you,” she said.

“Ah,” he exclaimed, placing the last book. “I think you and I are the only two who can or even should pass judgment on him, considering everything.”

“What would you do?”

“He’s not a bad man.”

“Just misguided.”

“Very,” he agreed. “I would put him to work. Under supervision of course. Give him a chance to do something good.”

Lydia thought that was best, but there was still some time before the crown delivered him, and she would have to sit before the Inquisition and Alexius to make her decision. “You seem worried,” Dorian noted. “But you shouldn’t be. The Inquisition is gaining influence, because of you.”

“It’s not that,” she said, even though the fact that Dorian mentioned was both odd and terrifying. “I’m just thinking about the conversation I had with the commander a few days ago.”

She rehashed their conversation about the phylactery, and how uncomfortable he appeared. “It’s not that he was uncomfortable with giving it back to me. It was more like…oh… I don’t know what it was like,” she resigned, leaning against the bookcase. “I got over the fact he used to be a templar a long time ago, even if he worked for Meredith. He’s kind to me, and the other mages now. He’s kind to you, right?”

Dorian nodded. “Charming, when he wants to be.”

She shrugged at that. “He’s trying to remind himself that this isn’t the circle, I think. He may not wear the armor, but sometimes he still has that mentality the rest of them have. I suppose I’m just glad that—"

She had said too much, and knew now she had to hold her tongue. Dorian however, wasn’t daft, and he noticed how Lydia abruptly stopped as the heat rose to her cheeks. “Lydia,” he began. “What’s the matter?”

She closed her eyes.

“Lydia?”

She took a deep breath, and looked around. Only Helisma, the tranquil researcher was near. She lowered her voice, and began. “There is something that hardly anyone knows about me, which is something I would like to keep that way. When Cullen called me to his office, I was worried he knew. But he didn’t mention it.”

“You once fancied another templar, didn’t you?”

The dark future. Linnea, and her cruel words. Dorian there, at her side as she accosted Linnea. He must have remembered. Though at least he held the decency to not mention it until now. “Yes,” she admitted.

“And let me guess. Now you fancy—"

“No.”

“Oh come now. Not even a little?”

“ _No._ That’s not it Dorian, not by a long shot. And please stop looking at me so skeptically.”

The mischievous glint never fully left his eyes, but Dorian made it clear she didn’t have to tell him what happened, if she so chose. “I’ve held this for so long,” she said, rationalizing it. “And Willa, my old friend, wrote to me the other day. I suppose it’s made me remember. You know it’s forbidden here for a mage and a templar to…have relations. I don’t know how, but Asher and I, that was his name,” she added, “were found out.”

“How long were you two together?”

“I wouldn’t have said we were together, not in the traditional sense. We sort of just…met up when we could.”

Dorian must have suspected sex was involved, but Lydia didn’t have the will to explain that wasn’t part of their arrangement. The only thing they shared was heated kisses and a few words now and then. And though Asher asked and asked Lydia if she would, something held her back.

“I was lucky the first enchanter saw me almost as a surrogate granddaughter,” she said, getting back to the story. “She talked the Knight Commander out of any true punishment. But Asher was forced to leave, and my best friend never looked at me the same way again.”

“Did you love him?”

She may have thought so once, but now she wasn’t so sure. “I don’t know really,” she confessed.

“Perhaps you can try to find him.”

“Dorian. He died at the conclave. The last time I saw him was before I walked into the temple.”

Affectionately, Dorian placed his hand on Lydia’s shoulder, like the way a brother would. She placed her own hand on his, a gesture of thanks. “I’m so sorry,” he muttered.

“It’s all right. Well, I suppose it’s not. Not really. The point is,” she said, “after what happened in the Circle, people never looked at me the same way again. I was a silly, lovesick girl who ensorcelled a hapless templar. There were even rumors going around that I used some sort of potion on him. None of it was true. Andraste’s knickers, I couldn’t even look at him for the longest time. He was the one who came to me, for the sake of the Maker.” She straightened herself upright. “Anyway, you’re the only one that knows.”

“Except for that awful Linnea? I saw her here the other day, helping with research.”

“She was there when it happened, but she’s only one person. At worst, it’ll probably just circulate as rumor,” Lydia thought. “I just don’t want Leliana, Josephine, Cullen, or anyone else to know. When Cullen said the knight captain from Ostwick came to give him my phylactery, I was worried he would have been told the story and informed Cullen about it, but I suppose he didn’t know it.”

“You seem close to the Commander. Would it be so bad it he knew? You felt comfortable telling me.”

“Do not tell anyone, please,” Lydia pleaded.

“Of course I won’t,” Dorian assured. “But Cullen isn’t a bad person. A bad templar maybe, but not a bad person. I don’t think it would change how he feels about you.”

“I can’t be known as a sniveling lovesick, pathetic girl again,” Lydia said. “You weren’t there afterward. People I knew for forever mocked me. Knight Commander Jovan always respected me, but after that he treated me like I was nothing. My best friend treated me like I was a different person, called me an instigator. Said I should have known what would happen.” _Like blood magic Lydia. Those who tamper in the forbidden always get burned_. “The only one who treated me the same was the first enchanter. Later she told me it was because she had an affair with a templar, when she was still young.” Lydia ran her hands through her now shorter hair. “Can’t you see why I want nothing to do with that?”

“You don’t have to deal with that anymore,” Dorian said, placing his hand on her again. “The people here admire you as you are. You’re not some sniveling brat to them. You’re their Inquisitor.”

He was right. Her companions followed her to void and back, Josephine had done everything to make sure she was comfortable, and Leliana, though hard to read, seemed quietly impressed with Lydia. And Cullen was kind to her. Perhaps he was aware she was a mage, and that awareness may never leave him. But he saw beyond that, he saw the same Inquisitor so many saw.

But she knew the truth. “If Cullen knew, he would see what they all saw. Instigator. Mage whore. He would treat me like they all treated me."

Dorian waved his hand dismissively. “Didn’t anyone tell you that he was the one that found you in the snow? Or how he came to see you after the healers had tended to you? If he was willing to do that, then why would his opinion of you change because of something that wasn't entirely on your shoulders? It takes two to dance, you know.”

She thought she dreamed that, that Cullen came to her. “It wasn’t a dream then,” she muttered. “He really did come to me.”

“It was real,” Dorian said. “And maybe there are more real things than you think.”

She thought she should turn in early, seeing as how she would be heading for the Dales the next day, but Dorian stopped her before she could leave the library.

He beamed at her. “You always were a remarkable woman,” he said, “not in spite of what happened in Ostwick. Don’t let anyone think that you aren’t either.”

“You too Dorian,” Lydia replied. “You too.”


	13. Confessions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for description of death

Snow blinded him. The icy hair chilled him. Still, her phylactery did not pulsate in his hands.

_Where was she? Maker, where was she?_

He needed to find her. Find her before she succumbed. Yet now her phylactery moved in a full circle, in this direction and that direction, unable to let him know where she had fallen. He yelled for her, over and over again until her name became a hopeless prayer to the Maker to bring her back. 

His voice was silenced in the blizzard. He couldn't yell for her, couldn't call her name...

_Lydia..._

“No… _no_!”

In a cold sweat he woke, the sound of his own voice the thing that jolted him awake. The sight of the stars in his unfixed roof made him realize where he was. Skyhold. Awake. Home.

His face was beaded with sweat, hair practically drenched. He should have been used to this by now, these nightmares that took him this way and that way during the night. Yet on this night, the fade had taken him back to the mountains after Haven. That had never happened before. Nor had the fade ever conjured Lydia’s image, or lack thereof, as Cullen desperately searched for her.

 _Lydia._ She was safe, he reminded himself. She was at Skyhold. He had found her and saved her. She was alive.

He knew better than to try to fall back asleep now. Unwilling to stay in his loft though, he threw on a simple linen shirt, breeches, and stuffed on his boots before sliding down to his office. He lit the candle on his desk, and the small light illuminated the few pieces of parchment he had laid out. All of them were discarded letters to Mia that he tried to write. There were at least fifteen that lay crumpled and discarded, and they all said various versions of the same thing. _Mia. The Inquisition takes up much of my time, though I am doing well. Mia. Do not worry about me. Mia. My nightmares aren’t unbearable at all._

He couldn’t lie to his family, but he did not wish to burden them with the truth. They would not needlessly worry for his sake. Still, there had to be a way to assure them he was all right. He owed them something. Smoothing out a piece of parchment, he dipped his quill in ink, and began to draft.

_Dear Mia,_

His hands shook in such a way that made the letters all blur together, making the penmanship almost completely illegible. Crumbling up that parchment, he tried again, breathing deeply before placing the quill to the paper. _Dear Mia,_ he wrote in passable handwriting. _Yes, I am still alive._

His writing paused at the next line, quill tapping against the paper. If he could say everything he wanted to say to his siblings, he would fill an entire volume with words. Mostly words of well wishes, and pleas of forgiveness for not writing in that wide gap of time between Kinloch and Kirkwall. Promises to Branson, and how he would make the world safe for his child. If he could write that volume to his siblings, he would also tell them how ashamed he was of the man he was back then, and how truthfully, he was glad they didn’t know him as the Knight Captain in Kirkwall. He would tell them that it was only the Inquisition now, his second chance. He would speak of the Herald and Inquisitor, and he would say that there is few he admires more, if any at all. _She is determined, she is free. Someday, I’ll be free, as she is._

But Cullen did not write that volume to his family. He abandoned them after Kinloch. Why then, would they want to hear any explanations?

Looking feebly at his two lines, he signed the letter, sealed it, and resolved to mail it the next day.

At the light knocking on the door, Cullen informed whoever it was that they could enter. “Cullen,” Cassandra greeted, the early morning light spilling through the door. “I came to tell you we are leaving.”

“Already?”

“The Inquisitor wanted to get ahead start to Orlais.”

He must have been so engrossed in thought he didn’t realize how much time had passed. He was usually fully dressed and ready to start the morning drills at this time. “I wasn’t aware you were going to Orlais,” Cullen said.

“I am. As is Solas and Sera. Maker's breath.”

She wished Cullen well, then said she would be in touch when they were in the Dales. If they came across any information on Samson, or the Red Templars, she would let him know. Cullen hoped they would. If Leliana’s spies were right, caravans of red lyrium was passing through the Exalted Plains.

“There’s one other thing, before you leave,” Cullen mentioned to Cassandra, motioning her to his desk.

“Is something the matter?” Her voice lowered. “Are you…?”

“That’s not that. Not today, anyway. I just…I wanted to tell you that when Lyd—the Inquisitor comes back, I want to tell her about it. You know.”

She nodded in agreement. “If you feel you must, then you should."

“I believe she knows that something isn’t quite right. And if there is a possibility that—" 

“ _Cullen_.”

“Cassandra, it could happen. You know more than anyone that the army must take priority. If it does, she has the right to know.”

The Seeker scoffed. “You know, as well as I, it will not come to that."

 

* * *

 

When Lydia was in the infirmary, helping Sabine and the others tend to the wounded, she had come to the realization that her Inquisition had an idealized view of her. She survived Haven and escaped an avalanche. She walked out of the fade, and was delivered by Andraste. Maybe. Perhaps. No one knew for sure, and even she had her doubts about that. But to the Inquisition, it was a strong maybe. Because of that, in their eyes the Inquisitor had to be strong and powerful, able to withstand anything that came her way. If only those people saw her in the Exalted Plains.

Lydia was a wreck the entire time, toppling over as she stood above the body pits. She was unable to make it through the horrors without crouching over and becoming ill. She was appalled that this was allowed, and appalled that the Empire made this become a reality.

“This,” Cassandra spat, after Lydia had set the final body pit aflame, “is despicable. While the Orlesian nobility contends themselves with parties and the Great Game, this is the what their soldiers are going through.”

Cassandra shared Lydia's disgust, and along with Solas and Sera, they had traveled for roughly five days to the Plains, where Scout Harding had debriefed them. Leliana and Josephine’s agents managed to convince both sides to draw a stalemate until the peace talks at Halamshiral were resolved, but there was no word, and only silence from both sides. When the party reached the ramparts, they were bombarded with an onslaught of demons and undead. Only setting the body pits aflame brought relief. But the smell of the burning flesh was acrid as it settled through the air. Not even the nauseating stench in the Fallow Mire could have prepared Lydia for the decomposing smells that seeped through, so putrid that her eyes stung. Even after they settled down for the night, the stench would not disappear. Neither did the images of those that had fallen, frozen in anguish. They were all she could see when her eyes closed.

Sleep evaded her during the night. It was during the these times she thought of what Bull had told her, back in Haven. Back then, Bull had said that leaders made decisions and took action when no one else would. They did things no one else wanted to do. She learned the full truth of that statement in the Plains. She still couldn't help but have the thought that her Inquisition would never have suspected how her actions and decisions in the Plains could turn her into such a battered and weary wounded deer, unwilling to live with the demented images in her mind.

After four days of running from one rampart to the other, Lydia had enough of the death and decay. She instead focused her attention on the Dalish clan, much to Sera’s annoyance. But there was a young man who wanted so badly to join the Inquisition, and his desire to help the cause was so earnest that Lydia did everything she could to convince the Keeper they were good people, even undertaking menial tasks like chasing down a lost halla. It must have been a sight, Lydia and Pepper herding the golden halla back to the camp, as Sera couldn’t stop laughing the whole way. The efforts paid off however, as the Keeper allowed Loranil to take up arms for the Inquisition.

“He’s an excellent archer,” Cassandra said as they settled down for the night, their last night by one of the river camps. “Cullen will be pleased.”

Lydia thought of Cullen's gesture with the phylactery on and off during the nights as sleep alluded her. If she had a mind, she would write to him and tell him that she really did appreciate how he gave it back to her. He didn't have to, but he did, and it let her know he trusted her. And he cared. He had found her in the snow, after all. And if Dorian was right, he came to her afterward in the tent. But she did not write to him as she thought of doing, and only sent official missives about their lack of any sightings of Red Templars, or caravans of smuggled red lyrium. He in return wrote a missive back to Lydia, and outlined that the caravans might be passing through the Emerald Graves. He also outlined that as per King Alistair’s decree, Alexius had been officially delivered to the Inquisition. Lydia was set to judge him as soon as she returned. The letter was formal and professional, save for the postscript at the end of the parchment. There was something, Cullen said, that he wanted to tell her.

“Inquisitor, has Varric told you who his guest is yet?” Cassandra broached, breaking Lydia’s thoughts away from the Commander. Since the letter arrived she had constantly wondered what he wanted to discuss. Of Varric though, Lydia shook her head. “No, not yet.”

Cassandra frowned. “If it is who I think it is, I will wring that little bastard’s neck.”

“That’s…rather harsh,” Lydia mumbled. “Besides, who could it possibly be?”

“Someone who should have been here a long time ago."

Cassandra stormed off to bed a few minutes afterward. She joined Sera, whose light snores could be heard by the fire. Lydia however, did not wish to close her eyes and relieve the body pits again. So she remained by the fire, alone with Solas.

The elven mage had perplexed her since the moment she first crossed paths with him by the rift, the breach still spitting demons from the sky. She had spoken to him at Haven a few times, where he talked of his wanderings of the fade. Truthfully Lydia envied him. She could barely stand her own dreams and images that the fade brought her, she wasn’t sure how Solas could walk so freely through the dreams of others. However, she respected Solas, if he perplexed her. It was he who had informed her Corypheus’s orb was of elven origin, and it was he who had lead her to Skyhold. Had it not been for his knowledge, the Inquisition would not have been able to grow as it had.

“Cassandra believes Varric intends to bring the Champion of Kirkwall, I imagine,” Solas suddenly announced. Crooking his finger, he allowed the fire pit to burn much more brightly with his magic.

Lydia imagined what would happen if Hawke made it to Skyhold. Likely, there would be a riot. “That would be…something,” Lydia thought. “But she’s in hiding, from what I could gather. Of course I don’t really know for sure.” She still had yet to read Varric’s book. When things cooled down, bunkering down to read it wouldn’t be a bad idea.

“I suppose we’ll soon find out."

Lydia studied his profile as he gazed at the dancing flames. He was between waking life and dreams, perhaps thinking of the next place the fade could take him to. “I envy you, a bit,” Lydia admitted, breaking the silence. “If you don’t like your own dreams, you can go anywhere you like.”

His pride at the half compliment showed through the barest hint of a smirk. “It’s not only an escape,” he said. “I enter the dreams of the past to learn.”

“The magic you use, you learned it through the fade?”

“Rift magic, yes.”

Lydia had never seen or heard of such magic before. It must have been an old magic, used long ago that was no longer taught at the Circles, if it ever was in the first place. It fascinated her to watch Solas manipulate the fade like that. Pulling from it, hurling enemies away with the raw fade, and using it to punch down and disorient. There was a part of Lydia, a rather large part, that ached to learn. “How hard is it, to use the fade like that?”

“All mages pull from the fade when they cast spells,” Solas explained, “but rift magic uses the fade’s energy directly. It took many years for me to master it. You however, perhaps could use your mark as a channel.”

She had taken off her glove as they sat by the campfire. It glowed brightly in the darkness. She thought, and wondered. Then, hesitantly, she muttered to Solas, “Would you show me?”

He was amused more than anything, at least that’s what Lydia gathered. He did however, after quite a long pause, agree. “Back in Skyhold, I’ll show you what I know,” he said. “Who knows. Perhaps one day you’ll walk through another’s dream.”

Lydia wasn’t so sure about that. Her own dreams were more than enough for one person.

 

* * *

 

When Lydia and her party returned from the Plains, Cullen was in the stables, discussing the mounts with Dennett. Buried deep inside the sea blue of her eyes was something haunted. No doubt, she carried everything that had happened in the Plains. Outside of the official reports were letters Cassandra had written him. The Plains had taken their toll on her. “Are you well?” he inquired, as she idly stroked her mare.

“Alive,” she replied. “I just need a bath, and some rest. But I know you wanted to talk to me about something.”

“We can speak of it later. I know you must be tired. There is however, something else I wanted to say.”

At her prompting, he told her what had been on his mind since she left. “I’m sorry Inquisitor, for how I acted the last time we spoke. I know better than to take out my frustrations on someone else. I’m sorry.”

“Lydia.”

He looked at her quizzically, even as her tired but sincere eyes regarded him. “I realize you can’t just wear your titles when it’s convenient,” she said. “But please. If we’re speaking off the record, call me Lydia. And it’s all right, about the other thing. I do the same sometimes, when I’m frustrated. I suppose I was frustrated that day too. Thank you, for my phylactery.”

He half smiled. “Alright then, Lydia.”

He felt the roll of her name on his lips as oddly intimate. He used her first name before, but now it was like he was whispering a secret that few knew. Lydia was the secret part of her, the one she allowed only a few to see, whereas the Inquisitor was the public persona, the part of her that Josephine and Leliana were cultivating. But, he supposed there was a part of her that she wanted to keep for herself. The part that was Lydia. 

Lydia may have shown through, when she judged Alexius. Though the Inquisitor also manifested, in a powerful public persona that was beginning to take shape. The Inquisitor was firm and poised, pointing her finger at the magister as she made it clear that even though he made terrible decisions, he wasn’t an inherently evil man. She was a true leader that day. Yet when she sentenced him to work for Fiona, assisting her in her research, Cullen could hear the stifled gasps of surprise from the onlookers who expected to witness their Lady Inquisitor call for an execution. Some were impressed with her ability to be so forgiving, while others thought she should have shown the full might of the Inquisition by ordering an execution. Even Rylen raised an eyebrow at the decision in Cullen’s office later as he waited for Lydia, who promised she would met with him that afternoon.

“Perhaps it was brave to give him a second chance,” Cullen said of the verdict.

Rylen shifted. “I don’t know mate. I mean, there’s already rumors about her in the barracks.”

Cullen looked up from his desk, blinking.  “Well, did you stop them?”

“I tried, but I reckon we won’t ever end it completely. People will talk.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I’m sure they say shite about us when our backs are turned.”

Cullen knew he couldn’t stop idle gossip just like he couldn’t stop the sun from rising. He still would not have anyone speak disrespectfully of their Inquisitor, or start rumors. Just as he would not have anyone speak ill of Meredith when he was her Knight Captain.

Meredith. He grimaced. Such a naive boy he was back then.

Lydia though, wasn’t Meredith. Meredith didn’t so much as even deserve to be mentioned in the same breath as Lydia. He would have his men spit at him before they said anything remotely derogatory about her. “Impose that speaking ill of their Inquisitor will not be tolerated,” Cullen ordered. “If you must, use Nilen as proof.”

Rylen nodded, about ready to leave, until he suddenly stopped at the doorway. “You really going to tell her?”

“She has to know.”

Rylen shut the door, not saying anything else. Cullen glanced out the window, pondering what would unfold when Lydia walked in. He hoped she wouldn’t notice the small cut on his chin, the one he received when he nicked himself with his razor. Even though his day-old stubble covered it, he heard a few snickers when he inspected the barracks that morning. What he didn’t need now was for the Inquisitor to notice and hide her stifled laughter as he tried to tell her about his predicament.

A snicker was the least of his concerns. He hoped she would accept his decisions, but there was a chance she might disapprove. If that was the case he had only to reiterate that the Inquisition would always come first, even before his own sanity if it came to that. He would pray that it would not come to that.

He welcomed her in at the knock on the door, and the friendly smile that greeted him indicted she truly did forgive him after the rocky conversation they had before she left for the Plains. He tried to return it, but she noticed the halfhearted nature of it, and how the smile did not quite reach his eyes.

“You seem troubled,” she noted, walking over to his desk.

“As leader of the Inquisition,” he took a deep breath, “there is something I must tell you.”

“Are we the Inquisitor and Commander today then?”

That at least, made him crack a small grin. “I suppose so.”

“Whatever it is, I’m willing to listen.”

“I…thank you,” he murmured. He had rehearsed what he would say a thousand times in his head since he spoke to Cassandra about this, and he figured he would have to give an explanation first. The ironic thing about the mages and templars was the fact that even though they both lived in the Circle, mages often knew very little about the practices of the Order. Lydia likely knew about as much as any other mage. “I’m not sure what all you know about templars, and their abilities,” he began, “but to aide our—their,” he corrected, “abilities, they are given—"

“Lyrium. The templars are given lyrium.”

“How…how did you find out?” he asked, flabbergasted. “The chantry doesn’t usually expose this information.”

“One of the templars I knew told me, when Ostwick broke apart,” she confided, biting her lip. “I know it grants templars their abilities, and…” She glanced at him again, eyes widening in realization. “Oh Maker….” she was breathless. “You stopped haven’t you?”

He should have known that she would be able to put the pieces together. He nodded. 

She broke more space between them. “If this can kill you—“

“It hasn’t yet.”

“Why would you risk yourself like this?”

Because his chains were the lyrium. He was beginning to think that the chains would never relent, but he knew he had to try. It was the only way to find his purpose again. “After what happened in Kirkwall, I couldn’t,” he mumbled.

“The headache the other day, it was because of…”

“Yes." And so many more that she didn't know of. “Whatever suffering, I accept it. I will not be bound by that life any longer. But I would not put the Inquisition at risk. I have asked Cassandra to...watch me. If my ability to lead is compromised, I will be relieved from duty." He looked to the lyrium kit that he had carefully placed on his desk that morning.  It came from his trunk, salvaged from Haven. When it was brought to him, he was amazed that the contents, including his elderflower, remained intact. “I shouldn’t have brought it out,” he said, when Lydia realized what he was looking at.

“Can you hear the hum?”

“It’s inescapable.” He rubbed the base of his skull. “I only thought having it out, I could have some control. I suppose I should have known better.”

“I don’t want you to suffer.” 

“You speak of freedom,” he brought up. “The lyrium, it doesn’t relent. But not using it, resisting…it might be the only semblance of freedom I have.”

She wasn’t fully convinced. “There must be something we can do for this,” she said, exasperated. “Has any other templar stopped lyrium before? Willingly I mean?”

“No.” Perhaps he was a little too grave. He quickly changed the subject. “Listen, I don’t want you to worry about me, you have enough troubles of your own.”

“So you tell me about this? If you didn’t want me to worry…I…” She shook her head, placing her hands across the desk and leaning against it.

“Inquisitor, I accept whatever pain.”

“But if you die…if you start to forget...”

He placed his hand over hers. “I won’t.”

It was instinct rather than reason that made him place his hand there, and it was an unwillingness to move that made him keep it there. She may have said the conversation was between the Inquisitor and Commander, and though it may have begun that way, it was not how it was turning out. It was Cullen who placed his hand on her.

He knew it was Lydia, and not the Inquisitor, that asked, “After Haven, you came to me. In the tent, I mean. Didn’t you?”

He gave a nod of admission.

“I thought I dreamed it.” She closed her eyes, to bring her back. “There was elderflower. And…you held my hand.”

Almost like the way he was holding it now. He withdrew it quickly, before relaying what he told her before. The elderflower smell was from mantle, and it carried on to the rest of his clothes, per a trick his mother had taught him when he was a child. “It reminds me of home,” he confessed.

He was surprised when she came closer to him, leaning in slightly to smell the aroma. “It’s nice,” she complimented. “Almost like my mother. Though her smell was more jasmine and rose. She used to plant them in her garden.”

“She liked to garden? So did my mother.”

“I wish to start one here one day. Like her.”

He thought of a beautiful rose garden in the courtyard. “I’m sure our people would enjoy it.”

“Did you…did you also hold my hand?” 

He gave a second nod of admission. “To warm it.”

“How so?”

He held out his hand, and ever so slowly, she placed her un-gloved and un-marked hand in his palm. “Like this,” he said, bringing it to his lips. Lightly he breathed into it, creating warmth.

When he let go, he studied her expression. Her eyes had never once left his, he realized.

She left her hand outstretched. “In case it needs to be done again,” he justified. “Thought you should know.”

“It was considerate. I…thank you.”

“You thanked me before.”

“Yes, but I can’t remember. Thought I would do it again.”

He chuckled. “There is no need to thank me. I should be thanking you, for listening to me now.”

She sighed, remembering the original intent of the visit. “You really aren’t in too much pain, are you?”

“I can endure it.”

“It’s not easy to break away from your old life. I know.” She inched closer to him. “And I understand. This is your freedom. I just wish there is something that can be done.”

“I don’t think there is,” he admitted, not wanting to lie.

With regret, she murmured, “It’s cruel, what they put you through.”

“Please don’t worry,” he pleaded. “You have enough troubles of your own. You needn’t worry about mine as well.”

“I can worry a little, can’t I?”

He relented, but only just. “Maybe only a little.”

"Only a little," she promised. 

She looked at him, one last time before leaving. “Be well,” she said. “And stay.”

 

* * *

 

It was one week later. Lydia and her party had been on the road to the Emerald Graves for four days. Cullen had read in the reports that they encountered Red Templars guarding caravans of red lyrium, with assorted letters that claimed the lyrium wasn’t coming from the Deep Roads. Cullen hadn’t yet read the letters, but he knew what their contents were second hand. Unless they managed to find and interrogate a Red Templar, it would be impossible to say where the lyrium was coming from. Time was ticking by, and as the days went by, Samson was poisoning more of the Order. Cullen shook with fear and rage at the thought, that there would be no one in the Order left.

Rylen tried to explain that Cullen was doing everything he could, and he shouldn’t pour over reports and maps every single night, like a man searching for water in a desert. “Otherwise it will drive you mad,” Rylen claimed.

Cullen became too angry at Rylen’s innocent comment, too infuriated when he demanded why he should remain sane when the templars, people the two of them could have very well have known at one point, were being corrupted until they were nothing but a husk of their former selves.

Rylen stepped backward, having never heard Cullen lash out, not like that. Snapped perhaps, but never full on lashed out. “I’m sorry,” Cullen feebly apologized. “I…maybe I just need to be left alone.”

Rylen said he would be in the tavern, and if he cared to have a life outside of his job, he would save a spot for him. Cullen leaned back in his chair as the door closed, groaning as his mind raced. Like a child he closed his eyes and covered them with his forearm, a child who thought that shielding your eyes could help make all of the problems in the world disappear.

Cullen couldn’t hide away from this, just like he couldn’t hide away from the call of the blue vial.

He was too weak for this. Wasn’t strong enough to be free.

 _Stay_.

Lydia told him to stay. Lydia, whose hand he held.  

_Be worthy enough to be the man that she wants here, Rutherford._

He didn’t even look up at the creak of the door. “Go drink Rylen,” Cullen dismissed. “I’m sure Flissa would love to see you. You don’t need to stay here with me.”

“It _is_ you.”

The room stilled.

That wasn’t Rylen.

The figure in the doorway wore a long cloak with a hood, obscuring most of her features. That didn’t stop Cullen from knowing exactly who it was. Maker, he would have recognized that voice anywhere, clear and sharp as it rang through the air.

“Rhine,” he muttered. “Hawke.”

She grimaced at his use of her first name, closing the door behind her. “Knight Captain,” she greeted. “It’s been a very long time.”


	14. Champion

If there was one thing true about the Champion of Kirkwall, it was the fact that she had the potential to be a highly dramatic person. Standing in Cullen’s office, this time was no different. She was akin to a panther, the way she sauntered over to his desk, creeping up on him as if he was her prey. Slowly and methodically she removed her hood, combing her fingers through her short hair.

She raised her eyebrow at him. “Your hair’s different,” she said rather nonchalantly.

Cullen ignored the comment. “All this time. You were Varric’s contact.”

She crossed her arms and scoffed, as if to say _of course I am, ignorant templar._ “Varric told me you were the Commander. I didn’t believe him.”

He stood to his full height, a good head taller than her, but Rhine Hawke seemed to stand a little taller than he did. Scrutinizing brown eyes assessed his new appearance, particularly eyeing the scar that graced his lip. He fought against his self-consciousness as he tried not to move his hand there, shielding it from view. She noticed his self-consciousness anyway. Since the day he met her, he knew those eyes didn’t miss anything.

He remembered the day well. At the Wounded Coast as Cullen tried to bring a confession out of that templar recruit, she appeared out of nowhere and demanded that he unhand the boy. Then, when the recruit, Wilmod, transformed into a demon, she fought with a tenacity he had never seen before. He didn't know she was a mage then, she hid it well. There were a lot of things she hid about herself. 

So many things had changed since that day on the coast, but Hawke looked just the same since the last time Cullen saw her. She still had that slight build and strong jawline, contrasted with apple shaped cheekbones. The only thing that was different was her hair, shorter now and not even reaching her lobes. Her hair, and her eyes. Though she hid it behind drama and humor, he could see how haunted they were. It may have been the only thing Cullen had in common with Hawke. They were both haunted by the same memories.  

“Varric speaks well of your Inquisitor,” Hawke continued. “He does tell me the most curious thing about her though. A mage from the Ostwick Circle.  Am I correct?”

“Yes,” his voice was even.

She took off her cloak and threw it on her arm in that same damnably irritable dramatic fashion. “I’m surprised that you of all people would so easily take orders from her. After all. I thought mages weren’t—“

“Rhine. I—”

“Don’t call me that!” She ordered, slamming her hand to the table with such force that his lyrium kit, still there from the other day, rattled. He should have known better. No one called her by her first name, not even her closest friends. Save for Anders, and the elf from Tevinter, Fenris. Hawke was a figurehead, much like how the Inquisitor was. Rhine was much more personal, and too intimate for the likes of him to call her by.

There was only one other time Cullen had called her by her first name. After the battle, Meredith defeated, Hawke lay at the ruins of the gallows, Fenris clutching her as she wept. Cullen came to her, called her by her first name, and told her, for her safety, that she could not stay in Kirkwall any longer.

That was then, this was now. Cullen should have known better. “Hawke,” he corrected, her eyes flaring daggers at him. Disgust and shame was welling inside as he remembered his exact words that day on the Wounded Coast, and many more deplorable things that were said and done afterward. But he knew it now. Knew everything was wrong. He told Hawke exactly that. He told her it was wrong, and misguided, and he was ashamed. 

Her fiery rage transformed into an icy chill as she looked at him with such contempt. “You weren’t far gone like Meredith was,” she hissed. “If you had seen through her sooner, then maybe we wouldn’t be standing here now. Because of what you did, or more accurately, what you didn’t do, the city—”

“I know what happened!” he shouted. “I was there in the city afterward. Innocent people died on the streets. Families lost their homes. Orphanages had no more room to accommodate all the children, there were so many who were orphaned. Don’t you ever think that I don’t know that maybe I could have seen through Meredith sooner and prevented it from happening. I think about it every day.” He seethed. Utterly seethed. “But need I remind you, that if it wasn't for your Anders, who—”

He knew that would get a reaction from her. He thought he wanted a reaction from her, until he saw the ice in her eyes turn into a blizzard. She gave a sharp intake of breath, and Cullen knew. The lightning was in her fingertips, and perhaps if they were anywhere else in the world, she would have bolted him. He wouldn’t have put it past her. Perhaps he would have let her.

“Never speak of Anders again,” she demanded. “You don’t understand what he went through.”

She was right. He was the one that watched, not the one that was caged. He would never understand. 

Long moments passed until Hawke cooled down, exhaling her rage. “I shouldn’t have come here,” she said, moving away from him and back to the door. “I only came to the Inquisition because Varric wrote me and told me Corypheus is back.”

“You fought Corypheus before?” Yet another unknown to him. Then again, there were so many things he didn't know about her. 

“I’ll discuss this with the Inquisitor when she arrives.”

She placed her cloak back on, ready to leave. “By the way,” she broached, standing at the door. “I see the scar has healed nicely.”

 

* * *

 

During their last day in the Graves before returning to Skyhold, Watcher’s Reach bustled with energy, even as the healers tended to a few that were left wounded after Lydia found them hidden away by the Red Templars. It was far too close, but she had saved them from the templars, saved them from suffering their fate.

No leads on Samson from the letters they found, but as Cole said, they had helped people. Their lives were better because of them. The Inquisition was there to make lives better, and restore order. Lydia and her party had done just that.

Lydia, Blackwall, Cole and Dorian had just returned, and Lydia handed the healer Tamsin a bag full of herbs. Tamsin shuffled through the bag, tossing her blonde braid over her soldier as she spoke of the remedies and balms she would be able to make for the wounded.

“Oakmoss has healing properties?” Lydia asked, peering at the collection she had gathered. “I’ve never heard of healers using that. Then again my knowledge of healing and herbs was always limited.”

Tamsin nodded as she began to ground some the moss with a mortar and pestle. “Oakmoss is a restorative,” she informed Lydia. “And so many of our people were close to that red lyrium. A balm of oakmoss may help restore their bodies.”

“Really?” Lydia watched as Tamsin assembled the ground herbs, making it into a salve. “Do you think you have enough to make one for me?”

“Oh Herald!” Tamsin exclaimed, green eyes sparkling. “You saved us! Of course!”

Within thirty minutes Tamsin had a balm for her, and a recipe to make more should she need it. Ready to leave, back to Skyhold, Lydia and her party made their way back to the horses.

Before she mounted Pepper, Dorian placed his hand on her back. “Here,” he said, handing her a potion.

Lydia grasped the bottle of lyrium. She could grasp onto it, drink it easily without worrying about what it could do to her. She was a mage, and something in her blood allowed her not to worry about the effects of the blue vial. But templars, though their power came from it, could not take it without that worry. Asher had said as much to her after the Circle fell, and after Lydia’s attempt to return home ended in disaster. Turned away by her father, she found him. Asher had saved her, broken and wounded as he was, and near utter madness. He begged her for her last draught of lyrium, claiming he would die if he did not have it. He shook, beaded in a cold sweat as he grasped onto her shoulders. _The song_ , he said. _The song is driving me mad. Please kitten. Please, give me the bottle. I can’t stand it anymore_ …

She clenched her eyes shut. That memory never got any easier.

Cullen. There he was in her memory. Again she saw his earnest face as he calmly told her his choice. She saw the fear in his eyes, and she knew that he worried she would not accept this.

He said he could endure. She believed him. He had strength of will, a strength not even Asher could muster. She was beginning to believe he was the strongest, most determined person she knew. Funny, because he thought she was strong and determined. Like the woman in the story his mother used to read to him. Cliodna.

Lydia stared at the potion in her hand. It was the same hand that he held, placing near his lips in a strange, almost kiss as he brought warmth back to it. He held her hand like it was the most delicate thing in the world.

She heard the hum as she clutched the bottle. Not as loud as the call of the red lyrium, but perhaps there was something crueler in the blue vial. It was disguised as a blessing, taking away memories and bringing peace for the templars, at the price of their minds and sanity. It asked for nothing, except for everything that made them who they were.

“I’ll be fine,” she said to Dorian, handing him back the bottle before remounting her horse.

 

* * *

 

Lydia was given a warm welcome by a few of the soldiers stationed nearby upon her return to Skyhold, the sea green of their uniforms a comforting sight after being away. Sometimes when Lydia returned, there was a coat of red and black in the sea of green. She was hoping to see it along with the man who wore it, but there was a twinge of disappointment when she scanned the courtyard. Wherever Cullen was, he wasn't there to welcome her as he often did.

“Inquisitor.”

Lydia turned. “Rylen, is it?” she inquired to the source of the voice.

“Aye. Good to see you well.”

“You as well,” she replied, regarding him. She had known Rylen as the former templar with facial tattoos who became Cullen’s second in command, but being in his proximity now, she could better see his features. He was rugged, with a strong, masculine face that included a prominent nose and mouth. His eyes were a shade of light blue, and while the Inquisition uniform often covered his hair, today he wore it freely, letting loose the natural brown waves. The tattoos, however, were still the most unique part about him. Done in brown ink, it included four strips artfully drawn on his chin, along with a stroke of ink on the right side of his nose. He must have decided to have them done after leaving the templars, as Lydia knew the Order would declare mages could run free before allowing one of their men to do such a thing.

He gave a slight bow. “I’m sorry to bother you so soon after your arrival back, but I have a message for you. Sister Leliana needs to speak with you as soon as you can meet her. As does the Lady Ambassador. Says someone is here that you should meet.”

Lydia couldn’t suppress her groan. The last thing she wanted was to shake hands with yet another important noble or dignitary that wanted to meet the Inquisitor. The last noble she had met, Lord Farquar from Montsimard, scrutinized every move she made as if he worried she would set the room ablaze. She was not looking forward to another evening with another pompous and stuffy noble, but Leliana and Josephine were very adamant about appearances and decorum. And, she reminded herself, clout. Clout was becoming an utter necessity as the days ticked by, as they were still no closer to securing an invitation to the Winter Palace.

That didn’t mean she enjoyed passing time with nobles. “I need to eat first,” Lydia stated bluntly.

Rylen chuckled. “That is much more important.”

“One thing though,” Lydia said, before Rylen could depart. “Well, actually two. First, how’s Cullen?”

When Rylen frowned, Lydia stiffened. "Bad?"

“He’s been better. I’ve been taking care of things for him.”

She was stricken with a twinge of fear, but Rylen assured he would be fine. “Really. He’s better today. It’s just…what would be expected with the circumstances. What was the other thing Inquisitor?”

Shuffling in her bag, she found the jar of the oakmoss balm that she had carried from the Graves, handing it to Rylen when she retrieved it. “Something that will help with…his matters.” Lydia muttered. “It’s a restorative.”

Rylen took the balm. “Thoughtful,” he commented.

“Do me a favor?” Lydia broached. “Don’t tell him it’s from me. Say the healers send their regards, or something.”

Rylen raised his eyebrows. “You don’t want him to know?”

“Well, he told me not to worry too much.”

He half smiled. “Aye Inquisitor. Just as you wish. And I’ll tell the nightingale and ambassador you’ll be to see them soon. I won’t mention why.”

“Much appreciated.”

Rylen waved goodbye with the balm in his hands. It had to work, to bring Cullen some relief. He said he could endure, but it wasn’t fair that he had to. She was so stupid to not see his pain before, and the idiosyncratic ticks that came along with them. The way he rubbed his skull, the way he shifted from side to side during war table meetings. She used to think his hand was on the pommel of his sword because he worried someone would come and storm in, or, in the early days before she got to know him, she thought he was waiting for a stream of fire to erupt from her palm. She knew better now. He was trying to hide his hands, and how they shook. Even if it was in a small, minute way, perhaps the oakmoss could alleviate some of his pains.

Lydia continued to make that hope as she made her way to the kitchens and assembled herself something to eat. The kitchens were warm and familiar to her, a place she could be only herself. She had taken the habit of dining there with the other cooks as soon as it was ready, as she enjoyed the company of those that worked there. Emmaline especially, one of the plump older chefs who baked the most mouthwatering, delicious pastries and breads Lydia ever tasted. Josephine asked Lydia why she didn't take up her dinner in the great hall, but Emmaline and the others were much better company than Lord so and so and Lady stuck up, who scrutinized every little detail about Lydia.  But there were those that Josephine deemed far too important to avoid, and Lydia was forced to dine with them on occasion. As Lydia would likely have to have dinner with this new guest that Rylen mentioned, she did the same thing she had been doing since the beginning: stuffing her face in the kitchens so she could eat like a sparrow in the dining hall. It avoided any snide comments about her large appetite and how unladylike it was. She heard enough smart comments about how much she ate in the Circle. Enough was enough, and she took enough flack for being a mage.

The cooks knew Lydia often scurried to the kitchens upon her return to Skyhold, and they had left an assortment of rolls, cheeses, and fruit for her to nosh on. Emmaline had even made some cherry tarts. It was her favorite, and Lydia’s mouth watered at the aroma of the sweet cherry mingled with the fresh bread. She thought she would save that for last as she cut up an apple and a few slices of cheese for her roll of bread. Cutting the roll in half, she slathered it with butter and began to eat, enjoying the privacy of no judgmental eyes on her as she practically gobbled every bite. She may have understood the necessity of meeting with nobles during dinners, but Lydia’s record with parties and the like had been a marred one. Ever since the day fired spilled from her hands and onto that bastard who was on her mother.

That memory of that terrible party did nothing to ease her, especially with the knowledge of what she would have to do at the Winter Palace when they finally secured an invitation. They weren’t even close, but she still quivered with nervous energy at the thought.

Images of going to a party, wearing a blue silk dress, pining her hair up, doing the same things her mother did when Ostwick was having a party flowed through her mind. Smelling of jasmine and roses all the while as a man danced with her.

Well, perhaps going to a party wouldn't be so terrible.  Her mother used to promise her that one day a handsome man would dance with her at a party. It could very well be possible that her mother was right.

She quivered again, this time with excitement. Her inner circle would get some enjoyment out of a party too. Dorian would be delighted with the notion of a party, and perhaps Cassandra would as well, though she would never admit it. Sera would certainly have fun pulling pranks as the nobles danced. Cullen though, would probably roll his eyes at the idea of getting dressed up and dancing. He was a man’s man, one that likely never danced in his life or thought he would ever want to. But if Lydia took his hand, just as he did to hers the other day, pulled him close and began to sway with him, then perhaps he would realize dancing wasn’t so bad after all.

“Oh, I didn’t realize someone was in here. And… _oh_.”

Lydia looked up at the cloaked figure in the doorway. Her face was obscured, and she hung back a little, indicating that she recognized who Lydia was. The voice was unfamiliar, but Lydia already knew something about her, just by the way she spoke. The voice, clear and strong, yet still feminine, was one that made everyone still to listen. “It’s fine,” Lydia said. “I come in here all the time to steal food. You can join me, if you wish.”

She held back for a few moments before deciding to accept the invitation. Ever so slowly, and a bit dramatically, she removed her hood. Her chocolate eyes were set in a curious expression as she looked at Lydia, taking one of the rolls of bread and biting into it. It was a typical expression, one of sizing up that many carried when they looked at Lydia for the first time. The stories were a great many in number. Most people expected a lion, rather than a deer for their Herald and Inquisitor. The woman looked at Lydia with such unabashed curiosity that Lydia avoided studying her further, though she could see the woman’s short black hair was untidy and wild.

The silence was becoming increasingly more awkward as they ate. Knowing full well she was going to blabber and sound childish, Lydia couldn’t stand the silence any longer and asked if the woman worked in the kitchens.

“No.”

It was a firm and harsh response. She must have been a noble then, one of Josephine’s people. They typically carried airs. Maker help the poor hapless fool that dared believe they did common work. “Josephine’s people?” Lydia offered in apology.

“No.”

“Leliana’s then? You have the air of mystery about you.”

She meant to be funny, but the woman wasn’t amused. “No.”

“Cullen’s?”

She didn’t succeed in making her laugh earlier, but now the woman burst into a fit of laughter. “No!” she exclaimed. “Maker, no.”

Lydia didn’t even have a chance to ask her why that was so funny as her laughter quieted. As soon as it did, the woman’s eyes narrowed in amusement. “I never expected this,” she said with a chortle.

Highly taken aback, Lydia recoiled. She preferred to eat in silence, but she didn’t want to turn anyone away. All she did was nicely invite a fellow member of the Inquisition to dine with her, and now she was being put through a mind game. “What do you mean? I’ve never seen you in my life,” Lydia defended, taking up her knife and slathering more butter on her roll to give her hands something to amidst the awkward air.

“Varric said you had known little of me, but I didn’t think…”

“Varric?” Lydia repeated. “Are you one of his contacts from the Carta? But you’re not a—"

“It’s me, for the sake of Andraste’s knickers! Hawke. The Champion of Kirkwall.”

The butter knife clattered to the floor. “You…you’re…”

“Maker’s breath! I thought you at least knew a little about me.”

Lydia scrambled to pick up the knife, readjusting herself back up, and narrowly avoiding banging her head against the wooden table. She blubbered like a fool. “I…I had no idea. If I would have known, I—"

“It’s fine,” Hawke interrupted. “I complain too often about how people know who I am. Someone finally didn’t recognize me without the hood. Looks like I finally got my wish. Didn’t think it would be the Inquisitor though.”

“You know I’m the Inquisitor?”

She cocked her eyebrow. “Of course. Blue eyes, tanned skin and a look of a woman who has her head stuck in the fade. Varric’s description was spot on.”

“You’ve been in contact with Varric all this time?”

She chortled again. “Of course. He’s my best friend in the world. Had to lie to that Seeker though, claim he didn’t know where I was.”

It appeared Cassandra would be wringing Varric’s neck after all. Lydia would have to be the one to tell her, break the news gently.

“I fought Corypheus before,” Hawke stated, standing up. “I have some information that may help. You already dropped a mountain on the bastard though. Not sure what more information I could have for you.”

“You…you’re Hawke,” Lydia blabbered, still hardly believing _Hawke_ was there. “I heard the rumors at Ostwick. I heard how you—”

“I really don’t want to hear the rumors,” Hawke remarked. “I already know what some of them are, and they’re all wrong. Most of the truth is in Varric’s book, if you care to read it one day.”

“Most?”

“Well, it’s a two-hundred-page volume. Not the longest book in the world. But yes. I really did stop a horde of rampaging Qunari, and yes, someone I was close to was responsible for the destruction of the chantry. And all the while, I couldn’t stop my friends from arguing.”

Lydia twiddled her thumbs. “Some say you supported the action."

“Bullshit,” Hawke snapped, waltzing over to the other side of the kitchen. “Along with the blood sacrifices and moonlight dances that happened. But no one was doing anything for the mages, especially not the templars. I don’t condone what Anders did, but I…I sympathize,” she offered at last.

Lydia wondered where he was now. They were lovers, at one point. Lydia knew that much. She knew better than to ask.

Hawke came back over to the table and picked up another roll. “We’ll talk later Inquisitor,” she said. “I have a plan. We’ll get Corypheus this time. I know it.”

“Plan?”

“I have a contact in Crestwood who has some information. We should head out as soon as we can. Corypheus is not sitting by idly. I’ll let you enjoy the rest of your dinner though.”

Hawke left without another word, leaving Lydia alone with nothing more than a basket of pastries, and a million questions.


	15. Differences

The letter came directly from Kirkwall. Signed, dated, and from Elaine.

Cullen stuck it in one the adventure volumes he had begun reading, planning on going over it later. After Hawke arrived he had a brutal onslaught of a migraine that would not leave. He swore, Hawke cast some unknown incantation that cursed him with a pike under his skull that sharpened from a knob to firm point as the days went on. During this time Rylen supervised training the soldiers and drills while Cullen worked from his loft. It may have been better for Cullen to work with the soldiers, as during reading the reports, the pain made the words blur and concentration impossible. Thankfully now though, he was feeling much better. It may have had something to do with the balm Rylen brought him. He was going to have to ask for more, he was growing fond of the smell of the earthy oakmoss.

And Lydia had returned, safe.

His eyes darted from the map of Ferelden and Orlais where he had outlined the tract of the red lyrium, back to the adventure volume where he had carelessly stuck Elaine’s letter. There was a little curiosity, he couldn’t deny that. He didn’t expect to receive a letter from her ever again. Without giving himself a chance to change his mind, he opened the letter and broke the seal. Elaine was always a woman of very few words, and that certainly carried over to her letters. She wrote that things were very different now that he was gone, she missed him, and wished him well.

The closest thing to a lover he had, and she had only a few words to offer him.

He was nobody to begrudge her for such few words when he had none of his own. What he should have done was take up his quill and write Elaine a letter of apology for leading her on for so long, even though she claimed there was no need for apologies when it concerned their time together. They were always very clear in what their relationship was, as she reminded him. Said she was happy with that. But Cullen could see she wasn’t always. In that two-year period that they spent together, something in her eyes changed, even though there was no romance between them, and no great moments of long seduction on grand expansive beds. None of that. Only moments of heated lust on desks and behind walls, nothing more than a need that had to be satiated. Yet Cullen could swear, that towards the end, there was love in her eyes.

He became disgustingly aware of how he was using her then, this woman, fellow templar, that he did not love. Dirty. He was taking advantage of her. Just like how it was in Kinloch, though they never acted on it. Save once, when—

But he would not think of her. Not today. _Not today._

“Commander.”

The sound of a familiar voice zapped him back to reality. Dorian’s voice. As to why the Tevinter was standing in his doorway with a rather smug look on his face, Cullen had no idea. “Is something he matter?” he inquired.

“Yes,” he replied, leaning on the doorway and crossing his arms. “I was in the tavern yesterday when your apparent chess superiority was brought to my attention by your second.”

He couldn’t help but feel a wave of pride, akin to how he used to feel whenever he bested his sister in a match. When he became a templar he couldn’t play as much as he did with his family, but sometimes, when there was a moment of relaxation, Cullen and Rylen set up a game. Sometimes before, even Cullen and Elaine set up a game. “That is true,” Cullen answered, reminiscing.

“I used to play in Minrathous at Verantium. Undefeated, by the way. Would you care to have a match?”

He hadn’t played since Cassandra recruited him. He was tempted, but as he had been out of commission for a few days, the reports had piled. “I have a thousand things to do.”

“Oh come now. Everyone needs a hobby.”

Rylen had said as much to him, which was why Cullen had taken up reading again. “I read,” he said. “Reading is an agreeable hobby.”

“Oh, the Inquisition isn’t going to fall apart if you spend one afternoon playing chess. Come on now Commander. I already set up the board in the courtyard.”

One game couldn’t hurt, he supposed. “One game,” he warned.

Dorian huffed. “You and I both know that it has to be two out of three.”

With his sister it was always two out of three. Sometimes three out of five. “Probably,” he conceded, heading to the garden.

 

* * *

 

If there was one place that Lydia could think, it was in the garden. She was there now, watering the roses that were already growing. Once things calmed she wanted to plant more flowers, but for now the garden had a beautiful rosebush that could be tended. During this time, she thought about simple things, such as the meaning of life.

When it came to life, Lydia wasn’t sure if it was fate, chance, or choices that made things fall where they did. When she walked out of the fade with a glowing green mark of unknown origin on her hand, she never believed it was fate. Or Andraste, for that matter. Just chance, and sheer dumb luck. With that seed of thought, life was nothing but luck. But, she reminded herself, she chose to go to the conclave in place of Willa. She was brought to the conclave with her own volition. Then again, if Willa wasn’t pregnant, something that happened by chance, she would have never have gone. Or, perhaps it was really was fate that made those things happen. Other than lust, of course.

She could continue to play the mind game about what brought her to the conclave all day, but that didn’t change the fact that she knew she was very lucky in some aspects of her life. And, she was beginning to think that luck was what determined success most of all, and not choices. If there was one thing that was damn lucky, it was falling into the crevice after Corypheus attacked Haven. Yet in all of this, there was the unluckiest aspect of her life, and the catalyst for everything else: the fact she was a mage. She may have been talented and powerful, even without lyrium, as Solas had told her when he showed her his way of using magic. But there was no reprieve from knowing the life you were forced to live wasn’t even a choice you made.

At least now, in the Inquisition, she had found freedom. The moments of freedom in Ostwick were rare and precious, and she was either with Willa, Asher, or in her garden. In Ostwick the garden was her own project, and she tended to the roses and gardenia that grew there. The first enchanter even saw that she received jasmine to plant. Jasmine was her mother’s favorite, and she had hoped that when her mother came to visit her, she would see the garden and be proud of her work. Lydia still oversaw the garden there, even when her mother never came. She thought of the garden as a shrine to broken promises after that. Skyhold’s garden would be much the same then, a shrine of beauty, and a shrine of Lydia’s broken past.

Amidst the roses, thoughts shifted from life, chance, and choices. They shifted to Willa, Asher, Hawke, Cassandra’s assault on Varric, plans to go to Crestwood, and that letter Josephine brought to her attention that very morning. Lydia tried to block all those thoughts away, and instead tried to focus on the earth and the ground, and the magic of it all. She was the Inquisitor, but she was still allowed a moment to escape every now and then. Even from her own thoughts. One of the rose blooms had fallen from the bush, and Lydia took it and wove it into her hair, just as her mother used to do.

Despite the broken promises, she still loved her so.

“Gloat all you like, I have this one.”

Lydia could have sworn that she had just heard Cullen’s voice, but she didn’t think Cullen could even muster that much sass. Incredibly though, she stood, and saw that it really was him. She had never suspected Cullen would take a break, much less with Dorian by the looks of things. But in the gazebo, there he was, playing chess.

Cullen’s eyes widened at the sight of her. “Inquisitor,” he exclaimed, trying to get up.

“Leaving are you?” Dorian prodded. “Does this mean I win?”

Lydia chuckled. “No, go on!”

He slowly sat back down, returning his attention to the chessboard. Lydia had no idea what was going on or who was winning, but according to Dorian, he was going to be the victor, and Cullen had to comes to term with his inevitable win. That was until Cullen shot Dorian a broad grin, taking one of the black pieces and moving his out of the way.

“Really?” Cullen gloated, reveling his victory. “Because I just won. And I feel fine.”

Cullen shot him a knowing look as he got up and headed back to the fortress, Dorian playfully bumping into Lydia on the way back in. “He’s just jealous because I figured out his tactics."

“What was that?”

“Cheating,” he replied with a laugh. Standing near him she could smell the oakmoss, mingled with elderflower. Rylen told her he had been using it, and judging by his relaxed expression, minimal stubble, and wide eyes, it had done something. “I’m glad you feel better,” she said to him. “I’m also glad you’re taking a break.”

“Thank you, Inquisitor. I suppose though I should return to my duties.” He toyed with a chess piece, rolling it in his glove hand. “Unless, you would care for a game?”

There were some in Ostwick that used to play chess, though Lydia was never invited. The whole game was a mystery to her. “I never learned,” she said. “I’m afraid it won’t be much of a match.”

“I could teach you.”

His earnest face was set in such a sincere grin, cheeks even reddening a little that it was all too much for Lydia. She decided to take his offer. “Prepare the board commander.”

 

* * *

 

Maker, Lydia certainly wasn’t having any beginner’s luck, though she was giving it an honest effort. She sat across from him, hands folded in her lap as she studied the chessboard. Her face had turned serious, brows furrowed as she thought of what her next move should be. Her hand was hovering over a pawn. He saw the move she was contemplating, one that would have turned things in her favor, but at the last minute she moved the queen straight down. That wasn’t the best of moves, but if he moved his queen in turn, he could make sure she took the victory.

“I’m not very good at this,” Lydia said, flustered as she plopped her head in her hands.

“You’re fine."

She pouted, and he suppressed his laughter. Fearless Lydia, unafraid of avalanches and ancient magisters, but utterly frustrated at a game of chess. He was almost sorry he suggested the game, she was dressed casually and relaxed for a day of gardening, and his game offered her nothing but frustration. She wore a faded white shirt that hung loosely, exposing the tanned curves of her sloped, feminine shoulders. She also wore a skirt the color of olive green, one that bustled around her and fell a little below her knee. He hadn’t noticed before, but she had rather strong, muscular legs, likely the result of endless running and riding. They too were also tanned to olive, shapely and long. In his thirty years he hadn’t really seen an abundance of bare legs, as circle robes and templar uniforms often obscured them. He even hardly ever saw Elaine’s legs. Lydia though had no reason to be bashful about hers, and as she began stretching them, she seemed very aware of that.

He blinked back, decorum making itself known again. His eyes fell to her face, and to the rose she had placed behind her ear as she tried to figure out what the next best move was. Her hand flitted from one piece to another, and once again she made another abysmal move. Cullen matched it, about just as abysmal.

“I’m not good at this at all,” she complained again. “Really.”

“What are you talking about? You won.”

“Wait, what?” Lydia looked at the chessboard, disbelieving. “I won? That’s impossible! I’m terrible at this! You…you threw me the game!”

"I would do no such thing," he lied. "It just takes practice. And you’re doing much better than I did the first few times I played this with my sister.”

“You have a sister?”

When was the last time he had mentioned Mia, or any of his siblings to anyone? He might have mentioned them to Cassandra or Rylen at the tavern once, but besides that, he couldn’t remember. For that matter he didn’t remember the last time anyone was interested in his personal life. Yet there was Lydia, asking about his family, with more than a polite interest. He told her he had a two sisters and a brother, and he told her their names.

“So, Branson, Rosalie, and Mia,” Lydia listed. “Where are they now?”

“They moved to South Reach after the Blight.”

“Really? My mother was from South Reach.”

He recalled she had mentioned her mother was from Ferelden. He had just never asked her where exactly. “I’m told it’s nice there,” he said thoughtfully.

“She always talked about it. We just never got a chance to visit.”

“Why not?”

She bit her lip. “I...uh…well…things became known when I was eight, and…”

Maker’s breath. How could he be so daft? “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t—“

“No, no. I was young when my powers showed up. There were a lot of things I didn’t get to do.”

Cullen sensed the overlay of pessimism, unusual for her. “Well when this is over, the world is open,” he suggested, meaning to bring some optimism.  
  
“My mother promised me a lot of things before she died. None of them ever happened.”

He froze, shame creeping into him. Stupid, stupid fool, one that shouldn’t have tread onto territory he had no right to ask about. He couldn’t say he was sorry. He knew there were some things that “sorry” did nothing for. There were some circumstances where “sorry” did the opposite of what it intended, circumstances where the word mocked.  
It was such a beautiful day too, too beautiful for her to be so crestfallen. He had to make this right somehow. There had to be something he could offer, to get her mind off of things.

He had an idea. "I was wondering,  would like to go for a walk?”

She peered at him quizzically after he asked. Before she could rise, he stood, walking over to her. He outstretched his hand, and she gave him hers. Motioning toward the battlements, he let go with some reluctance. Together they walked in silence for a while, their only company the mountains. Cullen chose this side of the fortress on purpose, as he knew that there were few guards stationed here. Lydia walked at a slow pace that Cullen matched, taking much shorter steps than he was used to. When she stopped, placing her hand on the wall to look at the mountains, he matched her, standing by her side.

“Hawke is…interesting,” she mentioned, pushing a lock of hair behind her ear. “I assume you know she’s here by now.”

“I did.” Cullen wasn’t going to forget their meeting anytime soon. “And yes, she is an… interesting individual.”

“You were in Kirkwall. Did you know her?”

“I knew her before she became the Champion.”

“So you were the Knight Captain, and you had no idea she was a mage?” She wasn’t accusatory, only genuinely curious.

“I…she was good at hiding it,” he defended. “And by the time I found out she was the Champion and hero of the city. No one was going to put her in the Gallows after that.”

She shrugged. “No judgement.”

He wasn’t sure what Lydia knew about him. She must not have known, he rationalized. She would have brought it up by now. The thought of telling her sent a frisson of nervous energy through him, but he chanted, not today, not today. Another day, when the mess with the Wardens was settled. When she wasn’t already so sad. “That…wasn’t the best of times for me,” he said, knowing he had to say something. “I was—“

“You were a templar, I know. But you stood on the right side in the end. You’re trying to break away. You may still wear the symbol, but your decisions speak for themselves.”

Yet there were more decisions she knew nothing about. What would she think of those? Would she—

“Enough of that,” she remarked, scattering his thoughts. “Since you did invite me for a walk, what did you have in mind? Just a stroll?”

He thought about it. “Well, maybe, we could get to know each other more?”

As she furrowed her brows, he felt like a twelve-year-old boy who was having his first conversation with the opposite sex. “Like, what’s your favorite color?” he suggested, wanting to jump off the battlements as soon as he asked.

“That’s the question you begin with?” she asked with a playful smile. “I still don’t even know your full name.”

“Tell me your favorite color first, then we can go back.”

“Blue. Yours?”

“Blue as well,” he replied. “But blue like the sea.”

“Hmm. It is nice,” she said, readjusting herself. “Now, what’s your full name?”

“Cullen Stanton Rutherford,” he answered. “When my sister found out I wanted to be a templar, she used to make fun of me with ‘Ser Cullen’ any chance she got.”

“Lydia Rowena Theodosia Trevelyan,” she countered. “When I was in the Circle they used to tease me with Lady Lydia. All nobles were entitled prats, apparently.”

“Not you,” he said, and she appreciated that. It was true though. She was unassuming and kind, and understood. “What’s your favorite thing to eat?” Cullen questioned next.

“Everything,” she responded quickly. “But especially cheese, and bread, and cheesy bread. Also, Emmaline’s pastries in the kitchens. Have you ever had one? They’re incredible.”

He hadn’t, but he promised he would try them one day. When she asked about his favorite meal, he told her it was without a doubt, his mother’s freshly baked bread, that she made with sugar, butter, and cinnamon.

“Sounds marvelous,” she commented. “I’d like to have one now.”

When Cullen was a child, and he came inside after a long day, he always knew he was home. He missed that smell, missed his home. “As would I.”

“How about something different this time,” suggested Lydia. “Tell me something interesting.”

“Anything at all?”

“Anything at all,” she echoed. “I’ll go first. After I passed my Harrowing, right alongside my best friend Willa,” she paused for embellishment and flourish, “the two of us stole some of the first enchanter’s rare Antivan brandy, and jumped into the nearby pond by the garden in our robes.”

Their laughs were throaty and hearty, so hearty she had to wipe a tear from her eye. “What about you Cullen?” she asked as soon as she calmed down.

He thought for a moment, but the memories of his mother and home brought back more recollections from his childhood. “Well,” he began, trying to equal her storytelling abilities, “when I was growing up, there was a golem statue where we lived in Honnleath, and—“

“Wait. There was a golem statue where you lived? You’re making that up.”

“There was,” he insisted. “We were all afraid of it, but one day my sister Mia used to tell me that if ever wanted to be a templar, then I would be brave enough to touch it.”

“Did you?”

“No. Not until my friend Kate told me she would give me something if I did.”

She raised an eyebrow. “So. What did she give you?”

He reddened. “My first kiss.”

“Oh. Interesting,” she said in a sing-song way, smirking.

“Apparently after it happened I couldn’t stop smiling.” He reddened further. “Mia made fun of me for days.”

She studied his profile that was turned toward the mountains. Comfortable silence fell between them. If it wasn’t for his mantle, her shoulder would have been touching his. Shame he wore it that day.

She breathed in the mountain air. “You must miss your family,” she said.

With some regret, he told her he did. Every day.

“You could invite them here, if you wish. I’m sure Josephine would accommodate them.”

“They wouldn’t want to come here.”

“Why not?”

“I… do not write to them as often as I should,” he admitted, far too reluctantly. “And now my brother is going to have a baby and… _oh Maker_.”

She leaned over. "Cullen, are you alright?"

He wasn't. It hit him, really hit him, as his body was pressed against the wall. He wasn’t just a deplorable templar, it was the fact that he was a deplorable brother, and a deplorable son. “My mother and father, they wouldn’t be proud of me if they knew,” he confessed to her, as she stared, unblinking at him. “You don’t do that to your family…break off contact with them. But what on earth could I say?”

When he paused, Lydia did not pry or tell him to go on. She merely stood there with him. Anyone else would have filled the space with unnecessary words, but she knew. And as she stood unwavering, part of him did not want to ever leave the space they created, or ever break it with any sound in the world. However long he needed to stay, he knew she would stay there, right along with them. “I didn’t want to hurt them,” he was finally able to admit, to her and only her. “They don’t deserve that…not after everything. But if they knew what I did—"

“Join the Inquisition? Sacrifice your health and your sanity to break the chains? You’re better than most men Cullen.”

She thought that, she thought that…and that wasn’t true. _It wasn’t true…_

“I want to tell them everything,” he said, clenching his hands hard on the walls of the battlements. “But—"

“But you love them too much and you don’t want to burden them.”

“Yes,” he answered. “Yes.”

She had a look of regret as she looked away, once again crossing her arms, protecting herself from something. Her face became crestfallen, once again. “What’s wrong?” he asked her.

She tentatively began. “When my mother died, I thought I had no family left.” She looked toward the ground. “I did something at the Circle, and I lost someone important to me.”

There it was again, that "incident" that Leliana brought to his attention all those months ago involving Lydia. She must have  been referring to it now. He hoped his eyes did not betray how he made the connection. It was only his to know if she told him. She didn’t sense anything though, and continued. “I’m suppose I’m confused,” she revealed. “You say that you don’t want to burden your family. Well, my father didn’t want anything to do with me after we all learned what I was capable of. He couldn’t be burdened with having a mage for a daughter. It’s only now that he wants to come and meet me.”

Months ago Josephine wrote a letter to Bann Trevelyan, and though he did not know what the reply back actually said, he knew Trevelyan made it clear that he did not want to come to Haven. It appeared he had changed his mind. Since now Lydia had a prestigious title, she could do something for him.

Selfish, unimaginable bastard.

“My brother wants to come too,” Lydia brought up. “He also forgot about me after we found out. At least Aidan was the one who had the courtesy to let me know what happened to my mother when she died.”

“I don’t know what to say,” he said truthfully, considering.

“I don’t either. It’s why I was in the garden. Gardening always cleared my head. Hearing all of this, now, after hearing what Hawke had to say, learning about the Wardens…I didn't want this now." She rubbed her forehead, alleviating her racing thoughts. "Is it strange that part of me wants to invite him? Even after everything?”

“No,” he responded. “The last time I saw my parents was the day I was inducted in the order. I never saw them again. They died in the Blight, and I wish I could have said something to them, anything.”

The unspoken murmurs of her apologies passed between them. “You loved them though,” she said. “With my father…”

He was lucky, that he had loving parents. He knew that now. “And my siblings,” he said.

“And if they love you like you love them, you should know you wouldn’t be a burden. But my father, he’s something else entirely.”

Maybe she was right. But he could still hear the screams of those that had perished in the fighting. Hawke was right. If he acted sooner, then maybe...

“I don’t know,” he confessed. “I really don’t.”

“Neither do I.”

Cullen straightened. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

She didn’t respond, and he inched closer to her. She smelled of roses and the earth. “When you go to Crestwood, only focus on what needs to be done. Not any of this.”

“I don’t think I want to meet him,” she stated. “Not after what happened.”

“Then don't. Remember, you are free.”

“But Cullen, so are you.”

Was he? He didn’t think so. Not when he could still hear the hum and call, and not when he wouldn’t write to his family, because he was afraid they would tell him they no longer wanted anything to do with him.

But now, things were different. He was with her, with Lydia. It was different, than being with Elaine, or really anyone else he had ever been with in his life. This woman, this beacon of hope in the darkness, that reminded him of the woman from his favorite childhood story.

“Only sometimes,” he told her. Only when he was with her.


	16. Surprises

There was hardly any early morning light that crept through the stables as Lydia and her companions made last minute preparations to head to Crestwood.

“If what Hawke tells me is true,” Leliana debriefed, watching Lydia shuffle through her bags, “then it is crucial we allow only a few people to know. Find the Warden Inquisitor, and make sure she has means to come back. Bring her back immediately.”

"She?" 

Leliana nodded, looking elsewhere. Of her advisors, Leliana was the one who could always put aside personal feelings for the task. It was why it surprised Lydia to hear the desperation in Leliana’s voice. Even if there was only the barest hint of it, it was there, and it was impossible not to notice. “Who on earth is this Warden?” Lydia asked her.

“I cannot say for sure,” Leliana admitted. “I don’t know if it is true. I hope it is. But we will all find out, soon enough.”

Leliana lost all traces of desperation, and her expression gradually reverted to the usual cool expression of indifference. Lydia had to look away. It was still difficult to look at the spymaster, as it had been ever since Lydia returned from the twisted future. She could still see Leliana’s blighted face, dark, hollow, and unseeing. She could still feel the sting of her hand, striking her. She could still see her face as she died for them.

“There is something I must discuss with you,” Leliana said, pulling Lydia aside before she could ready Pepper. “Yesterday I thought you were going to speak to Josephine and I about the letter your father sent.”

“Oh.” Lydia had every intention of meeting Josephine in her office, but that was before Cullen asked her for a game of chess, and before he asked her if she would walk with him. By the time they said their goodbyes, wished their good lucks to each other and wished them well in their time apart, the sun was setting and Lydia was ready to go to the kitchens. By the time she was done eating, it was time to go to bed and rest before the journey to ahead. “I was with Cullen,” Lydia said. “We were having a discussion. But I ran into Josephine afterward, and she said it was fine, we could discuss it when this business with the Wardens is over.”

“This discussion you had with the Commander about colors took more precedence?”

Lydia didn’t answer, only tried to make her expression neutral. Leliana matched it. “Inquisitor,” she said with severity, “We have gathered your relationship with your father needs mending, but...”

“Needs mending? We have no relationship Leliana. I know we need more coin, and a donation from Bann Trevelyan would help us, but I’m not in the position to think that he will even give us anything until we do something for him. And if you think I will bribe my own father too—"

“Inquisitor—“

“We will discuss this further when I return.”

“One more thing.”

Lydia crossed her arms. “Yes?”

“There have been rumors about you. And the Commander.”

That revelation left her completely unfazed. People were going to gossip when they saw two people have a conversation. “And?”

Leliana was on the verge of a long speech, but she thought twice about it, and only parted with one last declaration for Lydia: act reasonably. Once she was gone, Lydia slipped passed her chosen party of Varric, Blackwall, and Bull, reaching Pepper and beginning to ready him for the journey, but not before first handing him a sugar cube. She murmured nothings to the animal, this and that about gossip and the ridiculous notions that people carried.

“Something wrong?” Varric chimed from behind her, all ready to go.

“Not at all.”

“Then why are you blushing?”

Her hands flew to her cheeks. “I—I’m not,” she stammered, but her fingertips could feel the heat.

“I heard what Nightingale said. About you and Curly.”

“We’re just…friends,” she eventually offered after a long pause. Yet as soon as the word was uttered, she knew there was something wrong with it in regard to her relationship with Cullen. Certainly, they talked and even laughed as friends did, but there was something in the way he spoke to her, something in the way the worry, frustration, and pains from his lyrium withdrawals eased when she was near him. Something in the way he spoke to her about things she understood he rarely spoke of, so consumed with duty as he was.

There was never a time when she had a relationship like the one she had with Cullen. Not with a man anyway. Not a relationship where the two of them were happy, and free when they were together. Where the past didn’t matter.

She never had that before. Not even with Asher.

No. “Friend” was not an accurate word for the two of them.

It was enough for Varric however, who didn’t say anything else. For good measure, she knew she needed to change the subject, so she asked Varric why Hawke decided to travel to Crestwood alone, and not with the rest of the Inquisition.

Varric responded, “She’s used to moving now, and she didn’t want her presence to draw a lot of attention.”

Lydia saw the point as she saddled Pepper. Meanwhile, Varric, in a very matter-of-fact way, brought up the conversation Lydia had with Hawke before they were formally introduced.

“We shared some dinner rolls.” After a pause, she added, “She’s…spirited.”

“Still hasn’t lost it, not in all this time.”

Lydia turned from Pepper, considering carefully beforehand. It might have been blunt, and maybe a bit presumptuous, but she decided that Varric might not have seen it that way. He was a writer, after all. He profited from spilling secrets. Casually then, Lydia asked why Hawke was alone.

“She took her brother far away from here after the rumors of Wardens disappearing began,” Varric explained with a sigh. “They never had the easiest relationship, but she loves that kid more than she’ll ever say.”

Lydia had heard Carver Hawke was a Warden. “And, what about her lover?” Lydia prodded, less subtly.

“Knowing something would happen to him, after everything they’ve been through…well, she wouldn’t be able to take it.”

Anders also had to be in hiding too, after what he did. No one could exactly walk out into the open, after doing what he did.

“You look like you have more things on your mind.”

She did, and it was on her mind for a very long time. “I don’t think it’s any of my business,” she confided. The other questions passed as a polite wonder, this question was far too close to being nosy.

Varric smirked. “Never stopped me from asking things before. What’s on your mind?”

“Ummm, well…” she began, playing with a loose curl from her ponytail. “You said once that Hawke would have stopped Anders had she known about...that. But how could she stay with him after he lied to her?” If she trusted someone, and they withheld something like that from her, she wasn’t sure if she could be brave enough to trust them again.

“It’s not that simple Inquisitor.”

She shifted from her saddlebags, turning her full attention to Varric. “In what ways?”

He bundled closer to her in a very conspiratorial fashion. “So,” he began, like any good storyteller. “Have you ever loved someone you probably shouldn’t have?”

“Why?” She raised her eyebrows. “Have you?”

“ _Hawke_ ,” he deflected, “isn’t different from anyone else. When her and Fenris became…close, closer than they intended, things happened.”

“ _Fenris_? Who’s he? I thought Anders was the one that—”

“Shh!” Varric scolded, scooching the two of them farther into the stables. “This is information Hawke doesn’t exactly want in the open.”

While periodically making sure no one was overhearing, Varric gave an abridged version of events. Before Hawke was the Champion and she first assembled her “merry band of misfits,” that Varric called them, she met Fenris.

“I think I remember you mentioning him once before,” Lydia recalled. "He was from Tevinter, right?”

“He was on the run when we met him. From his former master.”

Running from slavery. She stiffened at the thought as Varric continued. He painted a picture of the events that followed, speaking of the former slave who was wary of mages, didn’t trust magic, and brooded a lot. Then there was the other, the one who was vocal and proud of her status as a powerful enchanter. They were two individuals who had no reason to be drawn together. Yet still, they were. Caught in each other, linked by something unseen. It all accumulated to Hawke helping Fenris track down one of his former tormentors, Hadriana, his master’s apprentice.

“Something happened after that day,” Varric said. “They weren’t the same. Then, after a while, she and Anders were together. He even moved in with her. But…” He scratched his head. “It was always Fenris. They’d be together now if it wasn’t for this.”

“So she had to tell Anders the truth, that it wasn’t him that she loved?”

“Yeah. She did. Then, a little later…well, you know what happens.”

All those assumptions Lydia made about Hawke and her relationships, now completely shattered. She would have never guessed that such an ardent supporter of mages would have fallen for someone like Fenris, tortured and abused by the worst of them. But she wasn’t wrong, she supposed, for having assumptions. As word of the Inquisition spread, people were going to make assumptions about Lydia, her own life, and the relationships she cultivated. She was used to it. They did that in the Circle.

Now, if Leliana’s word was anything to go by, assumptions were going to be made about her and Cullen. But Lydia didn’t care about assumptions. She cared about the truth.  
  
As Varric finished his story, and the party left for Crestwood, Lydia promised herself one thing. There would be no more assumptions on her part.

 

* * *

 

Lady Cassandra wasn’t very pleased.

“She left me here,” she complained, standing by Cullen’s bookshelves with folded arms and a sullen countenance. “Why would she leave me here?”

“Perhaps because you assaulted someone?”

She dismissed her earlier altercation with Varric with an arm wave as the knocking at the door reverberated. Bull’s lieutenant Cremisius entered, there to detail the recent plans of investigating Therinfal Redoubt.

“I’m not sure what we will find Commander,” Cremisius said. “But at the very least we can get a look of the land.”

He was right, but Cullen still had to try. “I had wanted to do this sooner, but until now the soldiers have had to be placed elsewhere,” he detailed. “Now that my resources aren’t stretched so thin, I’ll send Rylen, and a retinue of ten other soldiers and templars with you and the Chargers to Therinfal. If we are lucky, there are a few templars that remained at the fortress. If we find them and interrogate them—"

“Then we may find the location of the red lyrium,” Cremisius finished.

“Exactly.”

“Once I gather up the boys, we’ll depart the earliest we can.”

“Thank you, I appreciate it.”

“Not even the Qunari like the sound of this red lyrium,” Cremisius mentioned on the way out. “The sooner this is dealt with, the better it’ll be for everyone.”

Cullen couldn’t agree more as the door shut. He sat down afterward, removing his mantle and making himself more comfortable. Cassandra remained unmoved, and with a blank expression. “Worried about the Seekers?” He inquired. “Leliana has said she can send agents to locate them.”

“Our resources are focused on the Wardens now.”

“Once this is dealt with—”

“It’s that combined with everything else,” she said, breaking the space between them and leaning across the desk.

“What is everything else?”

She tapped her fingers on the desk. “Would things be better, if Hawke was our leader?”

There was no hesitation, no need to think when he answered. “Things are where they should be.”

“I do not regret anything,” she said, after a moment of contemplation. “I do not wish for anyone else as our Inquisitor. It is only sometimes that I wonder.”

Even when she brought in the mages, Cullen realized he never thought Lydia didn't deserve her position of leadership. As he thought of all the things she had done, he felt the ghost of her touch. He felt it, her fingers on his forehead, brushing a stray lock of hair away from his face. That was when she made the choice, to save everyone else.

Cullen glanced at Cassandra. “Do you remember what she did, at the chantry? How willing she was to make that decision? That was what made her our Inquisitor.” Carelessly, he brushed his hair away from his face, just as Lydia did that day. “That, more than anything.”

Cassandra looked toward the window, knowing. “Hawke would not have accepted this,” she said.

“No, she wouldn’t have. Just as she never agreed to be the Champion. She was only at the right place, and the right time. And while it may have been the same for Lydia,” he added as a caveat, “Hawke never accepted her role the way Lydia has.”

“Twenty-five years old. Noble from Ostwick. Mage. Now head of the Inquisition,” Cassandra mused.

“No one would have ever guessed.”

“No, no one would have.”

When silence fell he shuffled through his papers, attempting to organize. There were a few letters that needed sorting, and Cullen grabbed the first one and skimmed through it. Addressed from some tailor in Val Royeux, the letter asked if Cullen would make a trip to the capital so he could commission a doublet for him. The doublet would be in the latest fashion, and he would look quite dashing in it. Shaking his head, Cullen threw it with the rest of the rubbish.

He sorted through the rest of the letters, but none caught his eye. None from Elaine or anyone else in Kirkwall. Not disappointing, he wasn’t expecting it. He wasn’t expecting a letter from his family either, yet there was still the pang of disappointment when he went through the pile and there was none.

Write to them, one part of him said. The other part remained unmoved.

_You don’t deserve them…don’t—_

“None from your family?”

Cullen shook his head.

“Have you heard from them at all?”

“I haven’t.”

“You’re not telling the truth.”

She went on, telling him he was being ridiculous. He could have a life outside of the Inquisition. Breaking away from the Order wasn’t supposed to be him just switching one set of burdens for another. He could further break away, have the life he didn’t before.

“Can I really?” he pondered. “I’ve tried so hard to break away, but every time it becomes easier, I’m reminded of it.” There was a burning in his throat, right then. Subtle, but a reminder. A cruel, cruel reminder. He needed it, needed the warm and tingling liquid…it would stop the burn…

He lifted his arm to his brow, rubbing his forehead. “I can’t break away from my old life,” he said. Not with his reminders, the aches, and the knowing looks from the others in the Inquisition. He told Cassandra so. He told Cassandra they still looked at him and whispered it. Knight Captain. And the crest he still wore, it only aided them. Maker’s breath, why did he still wear the crest?

“ _She_ doesn’t see the templar.”

Lydia. _You’re better than most men Cullen_.

But she didn’t know. “She doesn’t know me for who I really am,” he resigned.

“You’re not the same man you were.”

He knew though. He knew what he had to do. “I have to tell her.”

Cassandra didn’t answer him. He justified the decision, explaining that not telling her wasn’t right.

“We aren’t strangers anymore,” he said. “I look at her, and...I see s _omething._ But I can’t stand there with her and lie to her about what happened. She looks at me and she thinks I’m a good person.”

“You are.”

“I’m not,” he said. “The things I said and did were deplorable. But if I don’t tell her, then the only thing we have is a lie.”

“What has been shared before is not a lie. But if you feel you must tell her, then you must.”

He didn’t know why, but for the first time, Cullen felt lonely since he arrived at Skyhold. This persisted as he went through his duties, and he was lonelier still when he returned to his loft that night. Even with the sight of the stars above his head, he felt as though he was the only thing in the heavens. And there was Lydia, the unattainable star, out of his reach.

But maybe…

_Maybe…_

She was there when he closed his eyes. Outlined by the sun on the battlements, seeing him as the man before her, and not anything else. She saw. 

After he told her...what would she see then? 

 

* * *

 

The aesthetic of white snow-covered mountains around Skyhold’s lush greenery and cerulean blue sky gradually became darker and darker until Lydia and her party arrived at Crestwood. Not since the Fallow Mire had Lydia seen a place so dreary, and the incessant rain did nothing to help matters. The grimness of the town made them all somber, and only served to further remind them of their duties.

The party decided to cut through Crestwood to get to the hideout where Hawke’s ally took refuge. Lydia didn’t expect to find a huddled group of Grey Wardens, and when she spoke to them, they mentioned that they were looking for someone. Someone who had gone rogue.

“Leliana was right,” Lydia announced as they rested their horses in Crestwood Village. At Lydia’s insistence, they were to walk on foot to the coordinates in lieu of riding there, as she feared the sight of their horses would attract too much attention from the searching Wardens. “Whoever this person is, they need to be brought directly to Skyhold. We can’t risk their capture.”

Blackwall agreed, but Bull brought up his concerns about the rift in the lake. “And that castle the mayor said was occupied by bandits,” he added. “We’re going to have to help these people.”

“Meet with Hawke first,” Varric said. “Then we can focus on the village.”

When they arrived at the cave, Hawke stood there with her signature cloak around her shoulders, greeting Varric with a friendly smile, an enthusiastic embrace, and overall easy demeanor. To Lydia, she raised her eyebrows and nodded in acknowledgement. “My contact is inside,” she remarked.

“How did you come by this contact anyway?” Varric asked. “You never mentioned the name.”

“She was the one who contacted me first, about Corypheus actually," Hawke said. "After we killed him for the first time. Sorry I never told you Varric,” Hawke added as an aside. “There are some things even my trusty dwarf doesn’t know. Besides, she didn’t contact me until after Kirkwall fell. Then, when Wardens started disappearing, she contacted me again.”

It was Blackwall’s voice that joined in next. “If it is who I think it is…”

Lydia circled around to face him. “Who do you think—”

“You’ll see,” Hawke interrupted. “All you need to do is—"

Enter. Without prolonging the discussion any further Lydia zoomed past Hawke, the light from a few candles guiding her inside the tunnel. She couldn’t see anyone, not at first. She only saw a table, illuminated by about four candles, scattered with notes and papers.

Whoever it was, they were desperately searching for answers.

She could hear it before she could see it. It was unmistakable, the sound of an arrow being readied. Yet she still froze when she heard the voice, a female’s voice, order her not to make any sudden moves.

Carefully, she angled herself toward the sound. All she saw was the bow, targeted right at her. A bow, behind a canvas of long, red hair.

“Now you’ve done it,” Hawke mouthed from behind Lydia.

“Hawke,” the redhead said, keeping her eye on Lydia.

“Don’t worry, you’re safe,” Hawke assured. “This is the Inquisitor.”

The bow was reluctantly brought down, arrow returned to the quiver. Lydia got a better look at her eyes now, green and suspicious. She swallowed. “My name,” she stammered. “My name is Lydia.”

“Inquisitor,” the Warden said. “I’m sorry for that. I just had to be sure. My name is—"

It hit her. Like an arrow, Lydia felt the shock, the shock of at last, the pieces being put together.

Everyone knew her name. Everyone knew who she was. Even Lydia, in her garden at Ostwick.

But she was supposed to be missing. She shouldn’t have been there. But Lydia should have known better than to doubt impossible things.

“Miranda Cousland,” Lydia muttered. “It…it’s you.”

There was a very loud, and very vocal snort behind her as Hawke scoffed. “You recognized her, but not me? Of all the nerve in the world.”


	17. Revelations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last section of this chapter is NSFW, for reasons which you will see (hehehe)

The library at Caer Bronach was rather extensive, despite the fact all the novels were relegated to a small space barely any bigger than a cupboard. Lydia was drawn to the small library in hopes of finding that volume about the fifth Blight and the history of the Wardens, the same one she read as a teenager at the Circle. Sister Katarina’s volume went into some detail about Miranda Cousland’s life, and though Lydia knew the outline of her story, she wanted more answers that the book could perhaps give her.

How was it possible for Miranda Cousland to survive her family’s betrayal at the hands of Arl Howe, escaping while the rest of her family perished? She wanted to know how she became a Warden, and managed to persevere and lead her companions to gather an army. She wanted to know how she did all this, all the while falling in love with the man that would be king, Alistair Theirin. How did she survive the battle against the archdemon, later becoming the queen?

The tapestry of Miranda’s journey, wove her to disappear. And now it wove her returning to Ferelden. To the Inquisition.

Whether it was strictly because of duty, or something else entirely, Lydia couldn’t ask, as Miranda had left for Skyhold. The missing queen of Ferelden couldn’t exactly run around freely without someone seeing her eventually, but she told Lydia they could talk more once she returned to Skyhold after Crestwood had been seen to. Perhaps Lydia could have asked Hawke about how Miranda came to Ferelden again, but Hawke claimed to not know what else brought Miranda back, other than a need to see Corypheus ended. Hawke would not pry into Miranda’s life, and in return, Miranda did not pry about Hawke’s history. If Lydia wanted more information on Miranda then, she would have to look to the past, read between the lines. Maybe she would find something. T

he book however, wasn’t there, and she realized she needed other options. In vain, she searched for _The Tale of the Champion_ , but it also wasn’t among the shelves. She cursed herself for not reading it in the Circle when she had it under her nose, but she recalled that Asher had left after the book began to circulate, and that was the point in her life where Lydia didn’t do much reading. In fact, she didn’t do much of anything after that. But beyond her cloud of melancholy that prevented her from finding joy in the things she used to love, Hawke was a secret, someone you only spoke of in dark corners when templars weren’t around. In contrast, Miranda Cousland was a vision in the darkness. Everyone spoke freely of the Hero of Ferelden, because she was everyone’s hero. Even to the mages in Ostwick.

Scanning the shelves, something caught her eye. _Stories of Old Ferelden._

Cullen had spoken of Cliodna to her, the woman from his mother’s book. This must have been the same volume. Taking the book from the self, Lydia flipped through the contents, hoping to spot the name. Sure enough, there it was, “The Tale of Cliodna and her Lowlander.” Cullen had said he spotted the heroine in Lydia. She decided then, to sit down and see if Cullen had spotted correctly.

Varric and Hawke were sitting by the fire outside as Lydia made her way back, amicably chattering. Hawke had accompanied Lydia’s party as they closed the rift in the underground and helped the villagers. She did so with gusto and power, the same power that made her the Champion, but Lydia noted a flippant nature in Hawke, one that Lydia didn’t particular care for. It prevented her from fully bonding with her, as she had with Dorian, Varric, Cassandra, and her other companions.

It occurred to Lydia later on, when she heard Hawke speak with Varric near the fire the previous night, why she was so flippant. The confession wasn’t for her ears, but roaming Caer Bronach at night, unable to sleep, Lydia had heard Hawke’s admittance. _Varric, I miss him. I miss him so much._

Fenris.

Every jest she made as they helped Crestwood and closed the rifts, all of it was Hawke’s mask. That spirited nature that Varric said she never lost, she used to hide to the world how broken she really was.

Lydia and Hawke, two broken women standing on the precipice of a role they never imagined they would ever have to take. They were more alike than anyone knew. Yet it made Lydia stray even farther from the Champion. She was too much like her, too consumed by their pasts and the role they had to play.

She didn’t want to think of that tonight. Tonight, she wanted to be whisked away to Cliodna’s world.

Both Hawke and Varric raised their tankards to Lydia as she sat in an empty seat across from them. In return, she raised her book at the two of them, before cracking open the page to Cliodna’s story. Reverently, she traced her finger over the ornate illustration on the first page. It depicted Cliodna, a dark, long-haired woman who donned a long cloak, and stood beside a salt and pepper mare. Aside from the hair, that was still clipped to her shoulder blades, Cullen was exactly right. Lydia had a bit of Cliodna in her, right down to the startling blue eyes.

Cullen had also once said that his family had little, and this book must have been one of the most precious things they owned. Not just for the beautiful, ornate illustrations, but for the fact that this book must have made their world seem a little bigger than Honnleath. She wished she could turn back time, and see a young version of her commander, staring at the illustration of Cliodna. Back then he was probably all tangled waves, scabby knees, and wide amber eyes that had yet to gain their crinkles as he smiled, and on the lap of an equally blonde mother. In fact, she imagined all the Rutherfords of Honnleath that way, sitting around the fire as their mother began to read aloud. She could imagine a kind voice silencing the chatters of Cullen, Mia, Rosalie and Branson with the beginning of the story, a beginning that promised of adventure to come.

Lydia grinned when she saw that it began the way most Ferelden legends began, with the age-old prelude. _Before our father’s father’s came from the mountain, there lived a woman named Cliodna…_

“Inquisitor!”

Lydia glanced from her novel, reluctantly closing it when Hawke motioned her over to sit by her and Varric. She had gotten used to Hawke’s guarded, not as jovial demeanor around her, and she didn’t expect to be invited over to the private chuckles and jokes she shared with her only friend here. If Hawke was inviting her to their private party however, Lydia wasn’t going to be rude and insist on sitting by herself, nose buried in a book. She worried the two of them had gotten off on the wrong foot, at any rate. Their first meeting in the kitchens was nothing sort of disastrous. The least she could do was fix it now.

“Inquisitor Lydia Trevelyan,” Hawke drawled, turning to Varric as Lydia took her seat near her. “Has she got a nickname yet?”

“No,” Varric replied. “She was Herald, now Inquisitor. Just like you're Hawke. The two of you don’t need another name.”

“I do feel a little offended that I have no pet name Varric,” Lydia teased.

“If you could pick one for yourself, what would it be?” Hawke asked.

She thought for a moment. “Kitten,” she replied eventually, thinking of Asher. “Someone I used to know call me that.”

“My friend Isabella used to call my other friend Merril that,” Hawke reminisced before regarding Lydia, scrunching her nose. “I don’t think you’re a kitten at all,” she decided. “You don’t act like a kitten.”

“What do I act like?”

After a beat, Hawke answered. “Fire.”

“Fire?”

“It fits,” Varric decided.

Hawke drew Lydia’s attention to her “fiery” personality. “You weren’t letting any of those demons have it these past few days,” she said. “Sometimes even, when you kill one, you look down on them and shout “goodbye!” Do you know you do that? It’s funny.”

“It does suit you,” Varric chimed again. “And you know, once fire starts, it’s hard to stop it. Just like it was hard to stop you, once you decided you wanted to help.”

Appropriately enough, Lydia studied the dancing embers that illuminated the darkness. “Fire,” she repeated, taking the name, accepting it as her own. “Alright then.”

Hawke smirked at her. “You really are hard to stop, especially with that magic you use. Did they teach that at Circle? I mean the other things you do, not the fireballs.”

“It was Solas who taught me, from the Inquisition,” Lydia answered. “It’s called rift magic.”

“That was interesting, how you pulled raw energy from the fade.”

Lydia named it, “stone-fist.”

“That was a bit of a stupid question to ask,” Hawke retorted, smoothing her hair. “The Circle probably wouldn’t teach the mages anything except how to brew potions and hide their powers away.”

“It’s not exactly true,” Lydia innocently corrected. “In Ostwick, yes, we brewed a lot of potions, but they taught us other things. Mostly the healing school, though they also taught primal magic.”

“I bet you were the type that liked to show them what you were made of.”

“Well, not exactly,” Lydia admitted, not wishing to build grandiose images of how she was before. “I tried not to use my powers. Of course, when the war came, I had to.”

“You were ashamed of being a mage?”

“I suppose I was.”

“How could you say that?” Hawke questioned suddenly, not shielding her puzzlement.

“It’s not that I’m ashamed,” Lydia amended. “It’s that—“

“That’s what they teach you in Circle, isn’t it? That’s what Anders always said. It’s drilled in your head to hate yourself and your powers. Wasn’t it?”

“That’s not what it was like,” Lydia insisted. “I know I can’t speak for every Circle, but where I’m from, it really wasn’t all that bad. Truly,” she added. “I’m not lying.”

“Wouldn’t you have rather been free?” Hawke spat.

The sudden demand made Lydia recoil. “Of course,” she answered, keeping calm. “But—"

“It’s all the same,” Hawke snapped, rising. With her back turned toward Lydia, she went on, speaking ill of the Circle and the chantry, and all they ever did was make mages hate themselves and everything that they could do. Lydia was left baffled. She had lived in the Circle before, Hawke hadn’t. The vehemence and the hatred, she didn’t understand where that came from. It couldn’t have all been from Anders. Some of it had to have been from her.

“My father,” Hawke continued, “was proud of what he was, what he could do. He taught us to be proud too.”

“But why?” Lydia questioned. “Why is their pride in just being a mage?”

“Why isn’t there?” Hawke fired back.

“Because no one chooses to be a mage.” Lydia rose to meet the heated Champion, who kept her back toward her, as she had been doing since she had left her place by the fire. “How can there be pride in something no one chooses for themselves?”

“You may not have chosen to be a mage, but you chose to harness your powers,” Hawke pointed out. “Shouldn’t you be proud of that?”

“I’m lucky that I can channel my powers as easily as I can,” Lydia refuted. “It does not come as easily to others. Those who have had to work for it, yes, they should be proud. But me?”

“You won’t even praise your willingness to learn? Not everyone is that way.”

Lydia said nothing as Hawke looked right through her. “You should be proud of what you are,” she said, and it sounded suspiciously like a threat.

She still said nothing as Hawke took a deep breath. “Tell me,” she said, crossing her arms. “What is worthy of praise, oh wise one?”

She didn’t even know Varric had come between them, not until he was telling Hawke that she should just drop it now. “Hawke, come on. Relax."

“No Varric,” Lydia said calmly. “I think people have the right to be proud of the things they choose for themselves.”

Hawke hadn’t so much as breathed. “What if it’s wrong, Fire?”

“People never make choices that they think are the wrong choices.”

“Must’ve been how Cullen described his decisions in Kirkwall to you.”

Hawke looked at her dead in the eye, the contempt and anger in her voice, and Lydia watched as she returned to her chair, throwing her cloak over her shoulders, and staring at the fire. “Cullen?” Lydia repeated. “What do you mean?”

Hawke now, was the silent one.

“Lydia,” Varric said, tugging at her jacket. “Before you ask—"

But Lydia was already edging back to Hawke. “What do you mean?” she demanded.

Varric followed her. “Inquisitor, it wasn’t that simple, it—"

She tuned Varric out, planting herself in front of the Champion of Kirkwall. “What do you mean?” she demanded again. “He stood with you in the end. I know it, he’s told me so. Varric told me so.”

“What else did he tell you?”

Varric wedged himself next to the two. “Hawke, Rhine, maybe we should—"

“No,” Hawke fired. “I think she has the right to know about her Commander’s choices. He should be proud of them, after all.”

The eerie silence that followed locked Lydia’s feet where they were, and made red bloom in her cheeks. Hawke shook her head, glancing upward at her before she finally broke the tension filled air. “Maybe he shouldn’t be proud at all,” Hawke remarked. “It wasn’t like he made any choices at all when he knew what was happening.”

“What happened in Kirkwall Rhine?”

“Don’t call me Rhine,” Hawke demanded.

“What happened in Kirkwall, Champion?”

There was a hand at her hip. “Inquisitor,” Varric said, “you have to know that—“

Lydia put her hands on Hawke’s shoulders. “Tell me.”

“Sit down.”

Even as her pulse quickened, Lydia obeyed, lifting the book she intended to read from the chair. And as she sat and grasped onto the book, the book with Cliodna’s story, Hawke wove another story, one with herself and Knight Captain Cullen at the center. Knight Captain Cullen, on the Wounded Coast, interrogating another templar recruit, and looking at Hawke straight in the eye, and saying that—

But it wasn’t true. Hawke was lying to her. “It’s not true,” Lydia insisted. “Varric…Cullen wouldn’t say that. He cares about the mages. He cares about us. He cares.”

Varric said nothing. He didn’t have to. She knew. _She knew_.

“Inquisitor,” Varric said, as gently as he could. “You have to understand—"

“No Varric,” Lydia stood. “I’ve heard enough.” 

_The mages could do as much damage as the demons themselves._

After all this time, she knew who Cullen Rutherford was. She knew, and yet she stood on the battlements with him, believed the two of them were only Cullen and Lydia. 

They were never just Cullen and Lydia. Never friends, or whatever the _fuck_ she thought they were.

The two of them were just a mage and a templar.

 

 

* * *

 

Cullen’s head swam, tankard of mead in hand, as he sat at the bar in the Herald’s Rest. Try as he might to remedy his ailing with drink, the mead was doing nothing to cease his musings. His mind swam with thoughts of this and that, the Templars, the Wardens, why Leliana was being so secretive about the Grey Warden that arrived, and the fact that still, after two weeks, Lydia had yet to return from Crestwood. That was when someone took her place next to him.

Her name was Melinda, a pretty elven woman with a charming smile, and long brown hair that she kept combing with her fingers, eventually bringing it all to one side. It exposed her slender neck to him, he noted. She was the one, he remembered, who had the unfortunate situation with that templar Nilen some time ago, and she was still thankful to Cullen for sending him far away from her and the rest of the mages. In fact, she mentioned how thankful she was about ten times. It didn’t end there. She spoke of her admiration for him, and how brave he was, for trying to find the Herald in a raging snowstorm while everyone else had given up. When she asked him about swords and shields and training with the soldiers he humored her, and in turn she spoke of remedies she had learned as a healer, working in the infirmary. She must have caught the oakmoss balm that clung to his skin, as she inched closer, breathing in the forest earth smell. She said she could make more for him, if he wished. He accepted, and told her she was kind to offer, and kind for giving him company.

It didn’t come from nowhere, when it happened. It remained unsaid when she spoke, but her wishes were etched in her movements, such the way she did not move away when their shoulders touched, and the way her green eyes never wavered from his. All the same, Cullen was surprised, and perhaps not altogether unpleased, when she placed her hand on his.

“Commander,” she beckoned, low and roguish. “Would you like for us to go somewhere else? Maybe there we can…get to know each-other better.”

It had been a lifetime ago since his only lover, Elaine, had looked at him with that same hungry look Melinda now gave him. He thought of feeling another, placing his hands on her curves as she writhed beneath him. He craved it, having a lover in his bed. As much as he claimed he didn’t, he wanted it. Maker, he wanted it.

But he looked at Melinda, and there was something, something, that left his affirmation unspoken.

He felt the fool, when her eyes drifted downward, lips pursing in embarrassment as she withdrew her hand and body away from him. “Please don’t be embarrassed,” he told her.

“It’s because I’m an elf, isn’t it?”

“No, no!” He quickly assured. “Of course not.”

“It’s because I’m a mage then.”

“No,” he said, just as quickly. “No.”

“They tell me what happened in Kirkwall, but…I suppose I should have known.”

“It’s not that at all,” he said, desperately willing her to believe it. “Please believe that. I know it may be hard to, I know. But please.”

She was so young, barely into her twentieth summer, if that. Gently, Cullen lifted her chin, meeting her eyes with his. He told her not to ever be ashamed. It was all him, and not anything from her. He was the one to blame.

“There’s someone else, isn’t there?” she asked.

He saw a vision, one of a woman with blue eyes, a rose in her hair as he showed her how to play chess. A woman who told him he was a better man than most. Someone who he held in his arms, carrying her as if she was the most precious thing in the world.

He shook his head. “No,” he said. “There is no one.”

“Then why not?”

He thought again of taking her to his loft, peeling off her robe and taking her under his unfixed roof. This pretty girl, who would have been beautiful in someone else’s eyes.

He would not do that, take this woman. He would not do it, because he did not love her.

“Forgive me,” he muttered, leaving his half full mead. He could feel Melinda’s eyes on him as he traversed up the stairs back to his office, not understanding. Such a fool he was. Rylen would have told him so if he witnessed that. He would have told Cullen he should have taken the offer, if he wanted to feel a woman’s body next to his so much. It wasn’t as though the girl had spoken of love. But really though, what did love have anything to do with it? It was only a need and lust that needed to be satiated. There was no love between him and Elaine after all. Only brief trysts on top of desks and behind walls.

It was one night. He could go back, and—

But that wasn’t what he really wanted, he realized. One night with a woman wasn’t something he needed now.

No, what he needed was to see her. He wanted her back. Here, at Skyhold, safe. Safe, near him, and—

“She crashes in your mind. Just like she crashed into you that day.”

Cullen jolted with surprise at the voice. It was that boy, Cole. He often got complaints about him from his men, mostly the Templars who believed him to be a demon. He was unsettling to them, with his pale face, large eyes, and strange abilities. He could make people forget, as Solas had mentioned to him, but that didn’t stop the suspicious looks and whispers from happening. That didn’t stop the endless complaints that he should be removed from Skyhold’s grounds. Time and time again, he told them all the same thing. The Inquisitor had allowed the boy to stay, and they were going to respect her wishes.

He kept his own feelings about Cole to himself. Even if the boy proved he was there to help during the assault at Haven, that didn’t mean Cullen couldn’t say his presence and abilities didn’t unnerve him. This most recent statement did nothing to help matters.

“I’m sorry,” Cole replied, sitting cross legged in the corner he always frequented. “You’re just so loud.”

“I…I’m loud?”

“Your thoughts,” Cole said. “It’s like an ocean. Endless waves.”

He shifted, curiosity getting the better of him. “How so?”

“Inquisition now, hurt everywhere. Body calls out for it. Memories too much, engulfing, don’t bring me back there…no. But…sun. Now. Lydia, with me. Sunlight bounces off her hair, skin kissed by it. Eyes like the sea, and I’m drowning, but I don’t ever want to come up for air. Happy, like days before this. Please come back…I need to tell her. But how to tell her what—”

If his thoughts were like waves, Cullen was drowning, unable to come to the surface for air. He left Cole, storming away and quickly making his way back to his office. He should never have asked him to do that. It wasn’t even true, what he said about Lydia. It wasn’t true, wasn’t true… _wasn't_

_Lydia._

Brave, beautiful woman, who looked at him and saw someone other than the Templar. The woman that begged for him to see it too. She was the sun, and he was nothing but sully hands that had no right to carry her from the snow to safety after Haven. He had done nothing in his life that made him worthy to hold her. He knew that. And to think he had to the gall to imagine what her love would feel like…

He had never felt love before, not really. He only knew lust for another woman’s body, and he only knew the cruel pangs of infatuation. That was with her, Neria, the elven mage in the Circle, a hundred years ago. Before everything. He was foolish to think that the ill-advised infatuation he felt was love, and filthy to use her image at night to bring him relief in the Templar barracks while everyone else slept. It was almost as filthy as the way he used Elaine in Kirkwall. Laying with her, when he did not love her.

But really, what did love have anything to do with it?

He climbed up the stairs to his loft, tossing everything off but his smalls as he climbed into bed. He clamped his eyes shut, willing nothingness to claim him.

There was no nothingness. Instead, there was the sun.

Lydia. He could feel the phantom touch, the light press of her palm to his cheek as her fingertips brushed against his stubble, moments after he found her in the snow after Haven. Her fingers were ice that day, and he thought, if ever she were to touch him like that again, she would feel much, much different. There was a saying, in the Circle, that mages who used fire, like Lydia, were kissed by the heat of the flame, their bodies always radiating with warmth. And when she would touch him again, he would place his hands on her rounded hips, pull her in, and she would wrap her arms around his neck, and she would feel as the sun would feel, summery and warm as their bodies eagerly locked together, and—

_No._

Shameful. He was shameful and filthy. He should never think of her, his Inquisitor and Herald that way. He was deplorable, he was vile.

He could continue to call himself everything he was. His body was still betraying him.

Something, anything else he had to think of. Searching in the recess of his memories, his mind conjured Neria. Neria, and how she looked at him, peering from a book in the Circle library at Kinloch. Dark hair that framed a heart shaped face, mischievous smile as she noticed him noticing her. But _it_ had taken her, used her image to—

No, not that, not that. Not tonight. Not ever.

Quickly, thoughts of Neria shifted to thoughts of Elaine. Elaine, and what she used to do with her hands, her mouth, and her body, trailing over his chest with fingertips against the sparse hair on his chest. Her hands were soft, even with most her life spent with the templars, and he knew his own rough and calloused palm would be a poor substitute. None the less, he mimicked what she used to do, following her old paths with his palm and fingers. His skin was sticky with sweat, hands clammy, but he still pretended it was Elaine. She always ignored the scars he bore, as he did then, finding the waistband of his breeches. She liked to tease when they were together, tentatively caressing him under the thin lining of his smalls until his hips rocked, longing for more contact as the blood continued to rush. He mimicked the motion, though he was growing impatient, and he cursed when his smalls got caught in his ankles as he tried to throw them off.

Once they were gone and away, he was in no more mood for any more preamble. Wetting his palm, he slid his length up and down, gasping at the contact, even if that contact was only his hand. It had been such a long time since he allowed this, and though he intended to go slow and savor it, he couldn’t, not tonight. It had been too long. Yet there was something missing in these ministrations, something he needed. He tried then, to hear Elaine’s voice as he touched himself, the sweetness of it as she begged for him to come for her. _Come for me, Cullen. Come for me._

 _Cullen. You’re Cullen_ , she had said to him, as he found her in the snow. Lydia. Radiant Lydia, the sun.

It was her voice he heard now. He heard the gentle laugh she freely gave him, heard her tell him that he was better than most men, better because he was trying to break the chains of the lyrium. _Cullen_ , she said. _Cullen._ He could hear his name uttered a thousand times by a thousand different people, and never would it sound as lovely as it did from her. _Cullen_ , she beckoned. _Be with me, take me in your arms._

His hips bucked, and he could feel that if he did anymore of this, his end would be nigh. But he didn’t want to come yet, not now, when Lydia was with him. Still craving some sort of heat and friction, he turned from his back to his stomach and began to move into the folds of his sheet. She was underneath him. His mind could not really envision her form, he knew his mind was too dull to truly recreate her nakedness underneath him, but he could see that tantalizing dip of her waist that eventually rounded to her wide, feminine hips. He could see her sculpted body from her endless running and riding, yet still, when he pressed his body over hers, he would feel that softness, even as he buried his head between the valley of her breasts. Oh Maker, if she was there he would touch her everywhere, the way he never touched Elaine. Lavish her pert breasts with his mouth and tongue, yet also finding other ways to pleasure her, skimming his hands down her long, strong legs instead of carelessly pushing them aside. She must have had scars, though he didn’t know where, and he would run his tongue along every single one, even if she had thousands. He would tell her he wanted to hear her as he touched her everywhere, not to be ashamed of being unrestrained, as he would forever savor the sounds she made, forever remember he was the one that made her feel this way.

It was all too much that he grasped his base again, needing more contact as he imagined her coming undone underneath his body, a few careful flecks from his fingertips sending her over the edge. Yes, she would come, and she would be exquisite, her own euphoria sending him into frissons. Her blue eyes would search for his in the darkness, and he would be drowning in her body, wanting never to resurface, with only the sea blue of her eyes as an anchor. _Come for me_ , she would say. _Let me feel all of you…_ His strokes were furious as the fantasy of her chanted his name. And then, when he imagined the feel of her arms around him, bringing her lips to his and kissing him with all the fervor she had, he came, hot and sticky in his hand.

The euphoria lasted for only a moment. All too soon the imagined feeling of her disappeared, until he was painfully aware of only himself in his bed, the stars the only witness to his act of shame. He wished to the Maker that the chantry sisters were right, that lightning would strike him right now for his act. This should never have happened, he should never have allowed it.

But he did. He saw the form of her, that could never truly measure to the reality of her, but all the same, he saw. Now he wanted nothing more than to feel it, feel her. Know what her kiss would be like as he held her in his arms. Be her lover.

“Oh Lydia,” he murmured, helpless under the stars. _Lydia, Lydia, Lydia._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm very humbled from all the kudos and comments thus far, and let me tell you, it really encourages me to keep going. Thank you guys! You're the best!


	18. Betrayal

When Lydia hobbled out to the stables in the morning, she was surprised to see that Hawke wasn’t there. According to Varric, she already left. He wouldn’t say why, but Lydia assumed it was because she believed that anymore time spent with Lydia, the ashamed mage, was wasted time. On his part, Varric could not hide his disappointment at the fact Hawke had saddled off on her own. She was his muse, after all. Writers were always at their best when their muse was near.

While Bull and Blackwall spoke idly of their upcoming journey to the Western Approach, Varric tried to talk to Lydia about Cullen.

“Fire,” Varric said, using her new pet name in a vain attempt to make her feel better. “You have to know that there are things that happened before Cullen—"

“Please Varric,” Lydia interrupted. “I don’t want to hear it. Not now.”

“Boss, look!”

Bull rushed over to her before Varric could say anything more, bringing Lydia out of the stables and into the open area of Caer Bronach. Years ago Lydia would have gasped at the sight of a dragon sweeping through the air, but at this point in her travels, it would take a lot more than that to surprise her.

Bull however, appeared as though Satinalia had come early this year. “Would you look at that!” He exclaimed with glee. “That is magnificent!”

Even the usually stoic Blackwall cracked a grin. “She is a beauty,” he agreed.

“Boss, we have to go after it. Tell me we’re going after it!”

Lydia watched as the dragon swept away to the north. They were slated to leave that morning, and going after a dragon would delay things further. It would take time to prepare, draw a strategy, and who knew how long that would take? Not to mention, there was the fact that Lydia didn’t know how to go about fighting a dragon. She would have pointed that out, until Blackwall had to bring up the fact that if the dragon was allowed to live, Crestwood would be in potential danger.

Bull’s smile lit up the fortress after Lydia relented, and a brief strategy was discussed before the party headed to the stretch of land where the dragon resided. When Lydia saw the thing, the Northern Hunter, with dark lilac scales, giant wings curled on its back, and an impossibly long tail that slammed into the grass, she gripped her staff and ordered her party to stand by her. She drew a barrier for her party, protecting them before allowing Bull and Blackwall to charge and Varric to take his place.

The two warriors zoomed ahead, but as Lydia took her place, far, far away from the dragon, she gulped. “I can’t do this,” she choked.

“It’s like chess,” Varric said. “You have to plan your moves accordingly.”

“If this is like chess, we’re doomed.”

But she charged. And Maker, it was exhilarating.

The Northern Hunter swooped down and around before landing again, screeching a blood curling shriek. It didn’t breathe fire, like dragons usually did. Instead it slammed its feet down, creating charges of electricity and lighting in its wake. With the grace and poise that would make Vivienne proud, Lydia darted out of the way using the fade step, alternating sides periodically and avoiding the dragon’s attacks. Varric hurled arrow after arrow while Lydia switched from channeling fire to channeling the tingling frost, the same magic Vivienne had taught her how to channel, as she began to understand that this would be the way to offset the power of the dragon’s electricity. Blackwall meanwhile got the dragon’s attention all on himself, which allowed the others to freely attack. While this was going on, Bull shouted in happiness at how magnificent the beast was, looking positively exhilarated as his great sword hacked at the dragon’s feet.

When at last, the thing finally screeched for the last time, Bull lifted Lydia in the air, reveling in the victory, celebrating the beauty of being alive.

And then when it was over with, and she remembered, she realized nothing had changed.

They arrived back at Skyhold late in the night a day later than expected, the sea of men and women in their light green uniforms roaring when Bull rolled in the dragon head. For a moment, Lydia smiled again as she saw their thrill, but when they pulled her to the tavern that night and asked her to celebrate with them, something prevented her from fully sharing their merrymaking. The celebrating Inquisition scouts, healers and soldiers wanted to drink the night away, play Wicked Grace and perhaps dance while Maryden sang, but Lydia only drank half of a tankard, couldn’t even get through the swill Bull wanted her to try, and declined the offer for Wicked Grace. She refused Dorian’s offer to dance with him once, then again, finally relenting on the third time. Even then however she stepped on his toes an awful lot. Lydia apologized a hundred times, but Dorian laughed it off as Maryden’s lute changed to the lively “Empress of Fire,” and she let out a surprised “whoop” as Dorian began to twirl her around to match the lively melody.

“Come on now!” he said. “I’ve never met a woman from Nevarra who couldn’t dance.”

It was true that one of the few, if not the only good memories she had of her father was when he taught her the Nevarran Landler, and she was getting quite the hang of it towards the end. Unfortunately, she hadn’t done that dance in a long time, and she couldn’t bring her feet or hands to move the way she wanted, not now, not when she couldn’t bring herself to celebrate anything.

It hit her then, how wrong this was to even try. To dance and be merry, trying to be happy when Cullen had…

No. _Commander._

Eyes narrowing in confusion, Dorian pulled Lydia away from the dance floor, closer to the bar. “Tell me what’s wrong,” Dorian said gently, concern written on his face. “You’ve been sad all-night long.”

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing.”

She bit her lip, smoothing her disheveled hair away from her face. “It doesn’t matter now,” she replied. “I’m just, very tired. It’s been a long day, and I should probably go back to bed now. We’ll be heading for the Approach soon, and I want to get as much rest as possible before we depart.”

Dorian didn’t pressure her for more as she left the tavern, and everyone else was too involved in their celebrations to notice her slip past them and into the cool night air. She had taken off her shoes to dance, and the grass chilled her feet as she padded across the courtyard to the staircase that led to the Great Hall. She was going to take a long and hot bath, then try to allow sleep to claim her, and hopefully when she awoke she wouldn’t remember she ever thought of the Commander as Cullen. Just like she was always a mage to him, and never—

“Lydia.”

She froze at the sound of the voice. His voice.

She didn’t expect this, and apparently neither did he, as the upward inflection of his phrasing indicated. “I…where were you?” he stammered to her back, as she did not move to face him. “We all thought you would arrive yesterday.”

She gripped her shoes. She told Leliana and Josephine what happened with the dragon, but she told them not to tell Cullen. She said she would tell him herself when she saw him. She felt guilty for lying to the two of them, but she had no intention of telling Cullen. She knew he would give her a lecture about not making the preparations and needlessly running off, he gave his men the same spiel. “We were busy,” she stated flatly.

“With what?” Cullen asked. “And who is the Grey Warden ally you met? Leliana said they were here, but I haven’t seen who it is.”

She thought about firing back at him, ordering him to tell her why he was so concerned about her when she damn well knew he wasn’t. As the seconds ticked by however, and the two of them stood there longer with her back still turned, she decided just to leave. “I’m tired,” she said. “I have to go to bed.”

“Wait.”

She was halfway up the stairs, but she stopped when he called her, and at last, she reluctantly turned to face him. The sight she saw when she tuned took her by surprise. He was out of his armor, wearing a simple linen shirt, brown breeches, and mussed hair. The sight was so shocking that she had to blink several times to make sure that was really him. She had never seen him like this before, never knew Cullen would allow himself to be seen like this, so vulnerable.

He rubbed the base of his skull. “I…I’m glad you’re back,” he said. “You know.”

“I go back again soon, you know,” she tartly replied.

“Lydia, what—"

“Goodnight Commander,” she bade.

When she made it back to her beautiful room, draped and adorned with the deepest blues, the sight of it mocked her, but not as much as the sight of that book, poking out of her rucksack on the loveseat. It became an eyesore as she bathed, and once she was done and dressed for bed she walked over to the loveseat, picked up the volume, and flipped to the page with Cliodna’s illustration.

He saw her as Cliodna. Was that before or after he saw the mage that needed to be chained?

 _He’s changed Fire_ , Varric said on the journey back to Skyhold, in yet another attempt to make her see whatever he wanted her to see. _He found you in the snow. He—_

 _Have you forgotten that once a fire is there, it isn’t easy to put out?_ Lydia replied.

Varric didn’t have an answer. For once, the writer of so many stories had no answer to give, just as Lydia had no answer now.

She tossed the book out of her sight.

 

* * *

 

“What’s the matter love?” Emmaline asked as she poured chamomile tea into Cullen’s mug.

“Everything,” he replied, glancing at the pastry chef.

“And by ‘everything’ you mean a girl, of course.”

Cullen gave up and nodded, unable to lie. Not to Emmaline anyway, the grandmotherly pastry chef who worked in Skyhold’s kitchens and had taken him under her wing. Having forgotten to eat dinner one night while Lydia was still in Crestwood, Cullen went corridor creeping and made his way into the kitchens in search for something to eat. Emmaline was up and baking bread for the morning, and Cullen remembered she was the one that Lydia mentioned by the battlements, the one that made the most mouthwatering cherry tarts. When Cullen tried one, he had to agree. The cherry tarts were particularly indulgent, and he didn’t usually have a taste for overly sweet things, preferring heartier foods. He ate several that night, stuffing himself like a glutton, just as he was doing now.

Beyond Emmaline’s remarkable skill as a cook however, Cullen found her company pleasant, and the two bonded over the fact that they were both from Ferelden. She told him her story, and of how she made the pilgrimage to Andraste’s ashes after their discovery, and when the Inquisition settled in Haven she decided to bring forth her services as a cook. She had no children, and her husband had passed some time ago, but she said that if she ever had a son, she would imagine he would have looked like Cullen. Indeed it was rather uncanny how similar they looked, as Emmaline had similar hair and eyes, though her eyes were lined with wisdom of the ages, and hair was threaded with silver.

On this night, she regarded him fondly as he bit into another pastry, wiping away a few crumbs from his mouth. “Tell her how you feel,” she suggested to him in her own, maternal way.

He thought about it for one moment before realizing that wasn’t possible. He couldn’t dare, especially not after what occurred. She must have already known, as he carried the shame of that night with him. She wouldn’t have been so short with him when he ran into her otherwise, and unable to even look at him. Rylen had been right, not getting that roof fixed was a bad idea. Someone had seen, someone had told Lydia what had happened, heard him helplessly mutter her name as he brought himself relief.

He was being ridiculous. Unless someone wanted to climb his tower, they wouldn’t have seen. It was his own shameful secret for him to keep. But she had been short with him, and there was something guarded with her as they spoke that night, something that showed him a stranger when at last she looked at him.  
He didn’t know what it was, and he wished more than anything she would tell him.

“Why don’t you tell her how you feel, love?” Emmaline prodded, sitting down next to him. “You deserve to be happy, you know. And if she’s anything special she’d say yes.”

“She is a special woman,” Cullen said. “But…uh.” he tapped his hand against the mug as Emmaline patiently waited for him to go on. “I’m…not proud of the man I used to be,” he eventually said. “But she deserves to know who I was back then, to make her own choice about me. But even if she forgives me, she would never…” He closed his eyes, rubbing his forehead as he saw her, under the stars and in his bed, laying underneath him as he touched her everywhere, kissed her everywhere…

He made a fist under the table as his arousal grew. “It’s impossible,” he muttered, gritting his teeth.

“Anything is possible,” Emmaline said, and she kissed him on the forehead, in almost the same way his mother used to.

Really, anything? Cullen wondered that night, as once again he was forced to bring himself his own relief.

 

* * *

 

It was strange that the very next day, Leliana said the exact same thing that Emmaline did at the war table as the three advisers prepared for Lydia and her companions to head to the Approach. Cullen spoke of the soldiers he already sent along with Scout Harding, and the raven that had just arrived that morning, informing the advisers they were nearing the barren desert. By the time Lydia and her inner circle arrived, they would have footholds established. After that Josephine expressed her worry about what would happen, and what sorts of things they would encounter.

“Anything is possible, but we need to have faith. Speaking of which,” Leliana segued, “I’m sure Harrit will be very pleased at the raw materials brought in. I’m sure you were pleased as well, Commander.”

“Pleased at what?”

Leliana and Josephine shared a look of confusion. “You don’t know?” Josephine asked. “It was the reason the Inquisitor’s return was delayed. She said she would tell you herself.”

She certainly didn’t, not when he saw her. “What happened?”

“Well,” Leliana began, drawing out for emphasis. “Our Inquisitor has slain her first dragon. Didn’t you hear the celebration last night?”

“A _what_?”

"Commander, it..."

His palm stung when he slammed his hand on the table. “A _dragon_? She decided to go after a dragon without soldiers? She could have died! After everything that she has done, she could have—"

“She lived,” Josephine calmly stated. “And she is well. I’ll admit I would have preferred she was more prepared, in case something happened, but what’s done is done, and already I’ve received several letters detailing information on donations if—“

“This should never have been attempted without asking us first!” Cullen exclaimed. “Do you know how easily something could have happened to her?”

“I do know Commander,” Leliana said. “And she acted well. She saved the villagers, if that dragon attacked...”

“Where is she?”

“She’s in the garden. She said she would be here shortly,” Josephine said. “Wait, Cullen, what are you doing?”

Storming from the war room, doors slammed behind him he made his way to the garden where Lydia was, hair down and dressed in a simple brown dress. She was kneeling by a basket, cutting roses from the bush. He carried a storm with him, furious at the situation, but still, he felt that inward pang of guilt as she saw his rage and recoiled from him. Then he thought of her, injured or dead because she carelessly threw herself in danger, and the pang was gone.

“Commander,” she greeted. “What—"

“What in Andraste’s name were you thinking?” he snapped. “You could have died, you could have been injured, anything could have happened!”

“There was a dragon soaring overhead,” she said, slowly rising and keeping her calm. “You know what the dragon did in Haven. I made a decision. I wasn’t going to let it harm the villagers, which very well might have happened.”

“Dammit Lydia, you should have written to me. I would have sent soldiers to you. And why did you lie? You told Leliana and Josephine you would tell me what happened in person.”

“Because I had a feeling you would throw a fit,” she retorted, crossing her arms. “And it wasn’t that bad, by the way.”

“Not that bad? Lydia—"

“Inquisitor.”

He reddened, taken aback. “Inquisitor,” he corrected. “When I was a templar, I saw men fall from the simplest things every day. All it takes is one fall, one strike of bad luck.”

“Why do you care so much about what happens to me?” She suddenly demanded, and Cullen couldn’t help but notice the pockets of soldiers and healers that had gathered around. “Is it because I saved you that day by the rift and your knight’s honor wouldn’t be able to stand it if anything happened to me? Need I remind you, Commander, that you already saved me after Haven. We’re even now. You don’t have to fret anymore if anything happens to me.”

“Where did this come from?” he beseeched, utterly helpless. He came closer to her, wanting to touch her, do something, but she turned her head away. He took a step back after that, and lowering his voice so no one else could hear, he gave her a thousand apologies. He shouldn't have done that, he knew that. He was sorry.

She said nothing in return.

He closed his eyes, damning himself. “I don’t want anything to happen to you,” he said. “You have to know that I—“

“Are you going to tell me that you care?” she spat. “ _You_? Actually care?”

“Lyd—Inquisitor, I thought you knew I cared.” He came closer, gently putting his hand on her shoulder to prove it. “Please know that.”

“What am I to you?”

“You’re…you’re my Inquisitor, and...” He thought long and hard. "You're also my friend," he said. 

“But Commander,” she replied, looking straight in his eye. “I thought mages couldn’t be your friend. We can’t be treated like people, after all.”

Time stopped.

This wasn't happening. Wasn't...

He was stumbling backward. He was sinking, falling deeper, drowning and unable to resurface, unable to speak or do anything. And there was Lydia. Maker’s breath…he cared, he cared so much, and…

This wasn’t happening. He was going to tell her everything. She would hear it from him. Not this way, not—

“Hawke told me a few things,” Lydia explained, calmly. Much too calmly. “The tranquil solution. The extent of Meredith’s fanaticism. The people that died, and were hurt. And the Knight Captain, who stood by and watched it all happen.”

“You have to believe me, I didn’t know…I didn’t—“

“Bullshit!” She gripped the fur on his mantle, forcing their eyes to lock again. “You knew about the tranquil solution. You discussed it. You had to have known what was happening.”

“We didn’t go through with it!” he exclaimed, exasperated. “I didn’t know what was going on with Ser Alrik. Believe, me, please!” he pled, yet she still wouldn’t believe.

Her grip tightened. “What about everything else?”

“You have to understand what was happening in Kirkwall. Every day there were reports of another blood mage. The city was falling apart, and—"

“And instead of standing your ground and _seeing_ , you didn’t. You were too concerned with your natural rights to oppose us, weren’t you? You had the ability to see things clearly. You had sense, even if you didn’t realize the woman who you so easily said ‘mages aren’t people’ to actually was a mage! And I don’t care that you stood by the Champion in the end!” she snapped before he could try to protest. “That doesn’t excuse anything.”

She finally let go, shoving him aside. She was strong for a mage, as Cullen fell a step backward. Her gaze still lingered on him, fire in the sea of blue, fire that was never going to burn out.

He wanted nothing more than for the lyrium to take him, to whittle his mind away until this moment was gone forever. Yet in such an odd and ironic twist of fate, Cullen felt nothing. No pain, no shaking, no aching limbs, or searing headache. He only felt the rapid beating of his heart, right along with his disgust and shame.

“I know it’s hard to admit that something isn’t working anymore,” Lydia muttered. “I know it’s hard…but dammit, you’re a coward for not seeing…not knowing what was going on.”

She was right…she was right…Maker he knew, always knew she was right.

Her voice was cracking. “I knew who you were when we met,” she continued. “Knight Captain, worked for Meredith, whatever. It was the past. I forgave you because you were kind to me, and the people here. But dammit Cull—Commander,” she corrected. “Tell me you didn’t say that. Tell me you didn’t really believe mages weren’t people. Tell me now it wasn't true, Hawke lied, or...”

Her eyes beseeched him, begged, but there was only one thing he could give her. The truth.

And when he told her the truth, and he saw the one tear that escaped from her eyes, he would have lived a thousand years of ache to never see that again.

His voice was now cracking. “I was wrong,” he said, trying to hold his composure, a composure that was slowly crumbling. “I was wrong, I was vile, and I deserve to suffer for what I used to believe. But I don’t think that anymore. I hate that man I was. I wasn’t myself those years that I was in Kirkwall. I was angry, and you have to understand what happened before. Lydia…I was—“

“You know it all makes sense now, why you can’t write to your family. You just can’t bear to tell them how much of a coward you really were!”

He left the garden, not looking at those who had gathered around. He didn’t look at Dorian when he placed a hand on his shoulder, and he didn’t look at Rylen when he tried to follow him. And even though he could hear her begging to wait, and even though he heard her say that she didn’t mean that, he left without a second look.

 

* * *

 

Fire pooled at her fingertips, the proof of her own disgust and rage at herself. When it would not quell she shrieked a shriek so loud it would pierce the heavens, the ball of fire erupting and falling right into the grand fireplace of her quarters.

There it was, the proof that she was a weapon, a dangerous tool that always needed to be watched, a tool that did as much damage as the demons. There was the proof that Cullen was always right.

_Why did I do that? Maker why did I do that?_

She couldn’t sleep, even when she knew she had to, departing for the Western Approach as they were the next day. There was only her own disgusting self, and Cullen.

Cullen.

_Cullen…_

She wanted to hurt him in the garden, hurt him as he had hurt her. Well, she succeeded all right. Maker, she thought she wanted to hurt him. Hurt him like he had hurt her, but that wasn’t what she wanted. Not Cullen, who held her and—

She wanted to pretend like this didn’t matter. This was the Inquisition, and he was her commander. She didn’t have to like him, talk to him, or even so much as pretend he existed outside of the times she had to deal with him. But Maker’s breath, it did matter. It did matter, because for a moment, she thought—

Well, it didn’t matter what she thought. Not now.

Tears she did not understand fell on her pillow that night. Tears for the loss of something she never knew existed.


	19. Journey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING WARNING WARNING FOR PTSD

“Cullen, are you sure—"

“There’s nothing more to say.”

“Mate, you look like—"

“Really Rylen. There's nothing.” If there had been anything else on Cullen's mind, Lydia had taken that away.

Rylen relented, moving the topic of conversation back to the matters at hand. “I’ll write to you, give you status reports,” he promised, talking now of the Western Approach. “We were close you know, close to finding something at Therinfal. I wish we could go back instead of going to that wasteland.”

Rylen and the Chargers were so close to finding something, anything that could lead them to the red lyrium. Cullen was forced to pull them back to Skyhold however, once he realized the Inquisitor’s journey to the Western Approach would require a lot of men. “The Wardens are there, and I would rather the Inquisitor have as many as possible with her,” Cullen explained. “Have your riding skills improved?”

“Some,” Rylen answered. “At least I can get the bloody beast to move now.”

“Very good.”

“So who is this Warden ally?”

“You will likely know before I,” he answered, leaning against the window. The moon was already spilling into his office. In a few hours, the Inquisitor, along with Rylen, Hawke, the Warden, and a few other men would be heading out of Skyhold settle this business. Maker knew what they would find. He didn’t this like at all, the fact that he had to send Lydia and his men into such a barren desert, but if they didn’t, Corypheus would surely win.

“I wish you luck,” Cullen bade Rylen, the oldest friend that he had here at Skyhold.

Rylen surprised him as he moved over, and opened his arms into a brotherly embrace. He clapped Cullen on the shoulder. “I’ll see you Commander.”

“Keep her safe,” Cullen asked. “Please.”

He saluted. “On my honor.”

When Rylen left Cullen knew he should return to his loft, try to fall asleep and forget what happened that day. He knew though that it would take hours for unconsciousness to claim him, and he would spend those hours thinking of her. Her, and everything that could have been.

Andraste, was he was foolish to even believe that something could have happened between them. Andraste, he ruined everything, just like he always did.

Before he even entertained the notion of being by her side, he could have told her everything that happened in Kirkwall during that day they spent together on the battlements. He should have come clean that day. She would have been hurt, refused to speak with him as friends again, but he would have known where he stood with her. There would have been no false hope, and he would have never done what he did in his loft. He would never have believed that she would look at him and say that she wanted him.

That was a lie. He still would have hoped.

Yet now it was even worse. He betrayed her trust, made her believe he was a good man when he never was. She looked at him in the garden, and she saw the same man he had seen since Kirkwall. He was never going to see someone other than the coward again.

But she said that. _She_ said _that_.

Cullen bolted out the door, pacing the battlements. His usual armor protected from the chill of the mountain air, but he had gone outside in only his white linen shirt and breeches. He didn’t care. The cold was welcome, needed even. He could still see it all. Lydia, her anger, her betrayal, her despair. Hear the tears that were laden in the way her voice cracked, even if they weren’t spilled. He could feel the scrutinizing and judgmental eyes on him as he tried to go about his duties that day, and he knew he deserved it all. That, and so much more.

His wanderings took him past the tavern, to a place he hardly ever went. He thought he saw Leliana in the darkness on one of the landings, the clue being the hint of red hair behind her usual hood. Easier to see was someone else standing near her. Whoever it was shared the same color hair, though hers was significantly longer, cascading down her back in soft waves. He couldn’t see her face, but her stance was familiar to him somehow, as if he had conjured that image in the fade once.

“Will you tell me where you went now?” Leliana asked the woman.

“It doesn’t matter,” the other replied. “I had to come back when Hawke contacted me.”

The Grey Warden contact, Cullen realized, but Leliana was speaking to her as if they were old friends. Leliana knew a great many people, but surely though, she would have mentioned before that she knew who the contact was.

“Does he know?” Leliana asked under the stars.

“No, and it needs to be kept that way.”

“Will you go back to him after this?”

There was regret in the woman’s voice, a voice that was becoming increasingly more familiar, now that Cullen was thinking about it. “Perhaps for a little while. But I have to go back to where I was before this.”

“Why?”

“You know why,” she said, putting a hand on Leliana’s shoulder. “If I don’t go, I won’t have the life I want.”

“What if you search and search and do not find what you are looking for? Think of that Miranda. Think of the time that was wasted, that you could have spent with him.”

_Miranda._

That was the name of—

It was dark, but the stars and moon illuminated the fortress, and illuminated the pair of forest green eyes that were now staring right at him.

He knew those eyes.

He saw it. Everything. Cage around him as he prayed for strength, but where was the Maker then? Where was the Maker when he needed Him most?

“Cullen?”

No. He wasn’t there…he wasn’t there. Kinloch, the Blight, Uldred, the tower, they were all memories now. He wasn’t there…he wasn’t there again, not there under the green eyes that looked at him with such pity and confusion as he pleaded and implored. _Enough of these games, if anything in you is human, kill me now. Save me from this torture._

_You’re safe now._

_No! Why are you still here when I open my eyes? That’s always worked before._

_I’m real! I’m a Grey Warden. I came to save the tower._

_If you want to help me then kill them. Kill them all. They must die for what they have done._

_You’re wrong. I will not harm those that are innocent._

_They aren’t innocent! Look what they’ve done…they’ve they’ve—_

_Not all mages are evil._

_Only mages have this much power at their fingertips. Only mages are susceptible to the infernal whisperings of the demons. The mages killed everyone. They killed—_

“Cullen!” 

His throat was on fire, burning and searing even as the sweat beaded at his brow. He had to stay strong, stay strong and live through this…But it was near him, on him, everywhere and inescapable, whispering and demanding him… _Give me what you know you want to give me…Staring at me all this time, give into me now. Give in to me._

_No. Not again. Not again…no, no…no!_

“You’re not there anymore, you’re not there...come back. Come back.”

“Cullen!”

A cool compress wiped away the sweat at his brow. No, he wasn’t there. He wasn’t there. Wasn’t—

“Cullen, what happened?”

He didn't know where he was. He was somewhere inside, on the floor, people peering over him as a cool compress wiped away the sweat at his brow. He could hear the soft song of a lute. When he finally came to, he understood.

It had never been that real before.  

“He was back there,” a familiar voice said.

Gradually Cullen realized where he was. He was in the tavern, at the top floor. Cole was the one wiping at his brow, his face hidden away by that floppy hat he always wore. He must have been near, known what was going on and brought him inside. Leliana followed, apparently, as she too was kneeling next to him, her face contorted with concern.

“You’re safe now,” Cole soothed. “That demon won’t hurt you again. You won’t be there ever again.”

He still remembered. That would always be enough.

“Andraste, I am so sorry,” Leliana mumbled, taking the compress from Cole and dabbing at the sweat that had gathered around his neck. “I am so sorry you had to go through this.”

“He saw her and he was back for a moment,” Cole explained. “Demons…whispering…where is she…where…”

“Stop, now.” Cullen ordered. Then, gentler, imploring him, “please.” 

“Sorry.”

Cullen’s throat still burned as Leliana finished. It was as though someone was sticking hot coals down his throat, just like during those days he was trapped in the cage, no lyrium to ease him. “I’m so sorry Cullen,” Leliana said again. “I worried this would happen, that you would remember when you met her. It’s why I didn’t tell you. I suppose you would have found out eventually though. I should have just told you before. This is my fault.”

“It’s not your fault,” he insisted. “But…how did you know what happened? You…you weren’t there in the tower. Did she tell you?”

“In part.”

Cullen remembered everything about the day. He remembered Miranda, the Grey Warden who later became the Hero of Ferelden, and queen. She became queen right alongside Alistair Theirin, also there with her that day in the tower. The two Grey Wardens. Wynne was there too, he knew that because he had known her as one of the Senior Enchanters in Kinloch before the Blight. And then, right behind them all, the dark-haired woman with strange, yellow eyes. Staring at him with contempt.

He remembered them all, but he did not remember Leliana. He learned later she traveled with Miranda Cousland during the Blight, but he knew that she was not there that day.

“I wasn’t there in the tower, no,” Leliana went on. “But I have always known, since the day we met, that you were the templar in Ferelden, the one that was left behind.”

Of course she did. Why would he even think she may not have known? Why did he ever think that this one shame would be buried?

“Is it always that bad?”

He shook his head. Nothing like this had happened before. Not in his waking life, anyway.

“Is there something that can ease this?”

“No,” Cullen answered. “No.”

She wasn’t convinced, but she didn’t say anything else. In lieu of that she offered him help to his loft, and offered to bring him whatever he needed.

“I’m fine,” he said. “Really. I…I thank you though. Thank the both of you.”

He hobbled out of the tavern, thanking Leliana and Cole again for fretting over him. When he walked back outside, the night air cooled his flushed skin. He wasn’t going to sleep after this. He would be lucky if he could do anything after this.

He heard the soft voice, coming from his left as he walked across the battlements. The same voice he had heard ten years ago, during the Blight.

“Commander, Cullen is it?” Miranda Cousland inquired, walking up to him. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—“

“It doesn’t matter now.”

He added, a moment later, “Forgive me…your...”

“Please don't call me 'your majesty,' it's not very, well, I just don't like it,” she admitted.

This was all too much, standing here with her. This woman saw him at one of his worst places, and he couldn't tell her that wasn't how he really was. It wasn't true.

“I have to go," he said, returning to his loft. 

Nothing really mattered anymore, save winning. Not being able to settle, Cullen came to this conclusion. Not his past, or his mistakes, or what he had to endure every night. Nothing mattered but the world. 

 

* * *

 

There used to be times when Lydia looked at her reflection, and saw nothing more than a blank canvas. That was back then, when she still lived in the Circle. Sometimes the First Enchanter would catch her looking at herself and tease that because she still had her youthful beauty, her frequent glances were because she liked what she saw.

It couldn’t be farther from the truth. Her reflection never appealed to her. Her blue eyes were naïve and held nothing. Lips never kissed. She supposed she liked her hair, because her mother used to have hair like hers, long and wavy and cascading. She also supposed she liked the color of her skin, as it always carried a perpetual bronze coloring from the hours spent in the garden. Truthfully, Lydia didn’t like the way she looked back then, because there were no lines of lived experiences etched into her face. There were few things she could experience in the Circle, and because of that her face was a blank canvas of experiences she would never have. When she did look at her reflection, it was because she would hope that something would change. Anything. She wanted to look like she had lived. 

When Asher arrived, she got her wish. A short-lived wish, but for once afterward, she saw herself and saw something different from the blank canvas. Yet now, she looked at her reflection that the water in the small oasis mirrored back at her, and she didn’t know what she saw anymore. Shorter hair, but what else? She tried to find an answer away from the resting Inquisition at Griffon Wing Keep, staring into the water with no other company save Pepper. It was a small bit of secluded paradise in the wasteland, but no matter where Lydia went, she could never truly escape. 

Minutes passed, or maybe it was hours that passed as she remained by the bank. Time was losing the meaning it once a had. A year spent in the Circle would have been a day’s worth of living anywhere else, and now that Lydia had easily lived through at least three lifetimes, the moments where there was truly nothing to do were times she did not squander. If only her thoughts could give her a moment of a peace.

It was all too much, these pasts few weeks. Erimond, the Wardens, Hawke and the Hero of Ferelden. The army of demons. Cullen.

She still boiled with anger as she thought of the man that Hawke wove for her, and how he could have done something, could have seen. Yet it didn’t make what she had said right.

She wrote to him and the rest of the advisors about what had happened in the Approach with Erimond, and the old abandoned fortress of Adament where the Tevinter and the possessed Wardens retreated. Cullen was the one who promptly wrote back, informing her that he was preparing the soldiers for a march to the fortress. They would have to go back to Skyhold however, and plan their next course of action. His note was short and to the point, and while no one could have called it unprofessional, there was a clipped tone to it, a sense that he was only giving her the amount of words that was necessary. There was no _Dear Lydia_ , or even _Dear Inquisitor_ , and when he signed the letter, he signed it as _C. Ruther_. Could he even be bothered to write just Cullen? 

 _The mages must always be watched_.

Was that why he allowed himself to be closer to her? He wanted to be the one to strike the blow if she had used her magic on anyone?

She could think and analyze it until her mind exploded but she would likely never know the answer. She went back to the keep after accepting that, walking up the steps, and meeting Rylen at the top.

“Inquisitor,” he acknowledged. “I was going to have to send out a search party if you didn’t come back soon.”

“I would have been fine, there’s no need to fret,” Lydia replied.

“Just doing my job, my lady. Commander Cullen sent me here to keep you safe.”

Her insides twisted at the mention of his name. “Have you…heard from Cullen?” Lydia asked. “Is he alright?”

“He’s fine, as far as I can tell.”

“Did he ever mention…uh…”

Lydia remembered seeing Rylen in the crowd of onlookers that had watched the scene unfold. It wasn’t something anyone was going to forget anytime soon. “No, he didn’t,” Rylen replied.

Lydia shifted her feet. “He hates me, doesn’t he?”

“He only hates himself, my lady.”

There were more than a thousand stars at night in the Approach, and about just as many thoughts in Lydia’s head as she walked the battlements, unable to sleep. There was no doubt about it. She betrayed him. He had trusted her, told her things in confidence that she knew he had told no one else, and with what she had said, she betrayed him. What was wrong with her to do that?

“You are a fool, Lydia Trevelyan. Stupid, stupid fool,” she berated herself. “Instigator. Stupid little instigator.”

“What did you call yourself?”

Lydia gasped in surprise as she heard the voice that belonged to Miranda, the Hero of Ferelden. Out of all the people to run into, this was the last person she expected. “Nothing,” Lydia quickly replied.

Miranda raised her eyebrows, ignoring the comment as she regarded Lydia. Her hair was down, slightly disheveled, though she still wore her blue and grey uniform of the Wardens. Since they arrived in the desert both Miranda and Hawke had done their own investigating, and the only time that Lydia had met with the two of them again was when they were interrogating Erimond. Both Miranda and Hawke had gone to scout at Adament afterward. It appeared that they were back.  

“How was Adament?” Lydia asked. “Is it as bad it seems?”

Gravely, Miranda nodded. “It’s a solid fortress, impenetrable with what we have here. We’re going to need a lot more men to take it, and siege equipment.”

“You don’t think they’ll come here, do you? Attack us?”

“They would have already,” Miranda stated. “And they don’t have the equipment to take this place.”

Lydia’s bout of star stuck awe at having Miranda as an ally faded with time, as gradually this whole business with the Wardens and what she needed to do took precedence. Standing in front of Miranda now however, it once again hit Lydia with full force. She was remarkably beautiful, but the stories of the Blight always painted her as such. Her skin color reminded Lydia of honey, the constant sun exposure giving it that hue as they traversed throughout the wasteland. The few freckles that dotted her nose did nothing to deter from her attractiveness, and in fact they made her even more beautiful. She had a high forehead, an oval shaped face, and a slightly upturned nose. Her eyes were a pretty forest green, the color of leaves in the springtime. Her hair was what people first saw when she was near, as it was a very vibrant shade of ginger. In the Approach it was typically pulled away in an elegant braided bun, and that, coupled with her dignified posture and even more dignified walk, made it impossible not to forget that this woman was a noble.

Not just a noble. A queen. The queen of Ferelden. Lydia choked, shaming herself for ever forgetting. “I…I…I’m glad you’re back, your majesty,” she stammered, like the daft fool she was. On the field she was her ally, here, alone, she was leagues above Lydia.

Miranda laughed it off. “Please don’t worry about it,” she said. “Dispense with the ‘your majesty.’ That’s why I haven’t been around much. They keep treating me like I’m the queen.”

“But you are the queen,” Lydia pointed out.

“I’ll always be a Grey Warden first.”

She looked almost regretful as she said that. “Is it hard?” Lydia inquired. A stupid question, nothing like that could be easy.

Miranda smirked in amusement. “You tell me, Inquisitor. The two of us, as well as Hawke I suppose, we’ll always be the Hero, Champion, and Inquisitor before anything else.”

“I’m still me, though,” Lydia remarked. “Underneath this title, I mean."

“I envy you.”  

It was a startling confession, and Miranda looked away from her, to the stars that blanketed the nighttime sky. “When I became a Warden,” she began, explaining herself, “I thought I lost everything that made me who I was. I was thrown into this journey I wanted no part of, and I had to become something I didn’t want to be.”

Lydia shifted closer. “Can you…elaborate?”

“Well,” Miranda leaned against the battlements, resting her cheek on her hand. “I was angry, at first. Arl Howe betrayed my family and all I wanted was revenge, or a way to make time turn back so it would have never happened. To this day, I still believe that had Howe not betrayed us, this would have never happened.”

“You’re referring to becoming a Warden?”

Miranda nodded. “Duncan, he was the one that recruited me. He came to Highever before the attack seeking aide for the Blight. I remember he told me in the castle when I first met him that he had heard of the Lady Miranda, and her skill with the bow. He watched me practice that morning with the rest of my father’s men, and saw potential in me. I thought he was crazy. I was happy with my life, and I had a duty to my family. Why would I want to be a Warden? Besides, I had never been in a real fight before. Not until…well, that night.”

She bit her lip, pausing. “When…Howe did what he did,” she continued, “I had…never killed anyone before. But when I saw what they did to my nephew, I—I…”

She bit back the memory, the memory that had never healed. How could it? “I didn’t know anyone could feel a hatred like that,” she said. “I wanted revenge. It was my duty to seek revenge, but Duncan told me that becoming a Warden was my new life. I didn’t even think he cared about what happened to my family.”

“He took you away to Ostagar after that?”

Miranda nodded. “I…wasn’t happy.”

“Who would be?”

“I don’t know,” Miranda answered. “The point was, after I became a Warden, and after Loghain’s betrayal, I was saddled with a burden I didn’t want.”

“Did Flemeth really save you?” Lydia asked suddenly. “I always hear about that. A lot of people in Ostwick didn’t believe it.”

“She called herself Flemeth, but if it was _the_ Flemeth, who knows? She saved us so we could save Ferelden. Andraste, back then I almost wished she didn’t. I hated the fact that my life was in ruins, and Ferelden lay in ruins, and I had to be the one to put it back together. Being a Grey Warden was my curse, and I can’t tell you how many times I cursed Duncan for doing this to me. I called him nothing more than an opportunist, taking an innocent girl, not even in her twenty-fifth summer, and making her one of his own. Alistair and I used to argue about that a lot.”

Alistair, the Grey Warden king. “The worst fight we had though, that was when Arl Eamon told Alistair he had to be king,” Miranda continued. “He never wanted to be king, but I told him it was something he had to do. It was his duty. He called me a hypocrite that night. Told me it was my duty to stop the Blight, and accept that I was a Grey Warden. Course, I said that being a Grey Warden and stopping the Blight shouldn’t have meant running endless fetch quests for the elves, the dwarves, and everyone else that we came across. My life was perfect before the Blight. Carefree. I said I would have given anything to go back. I even told him I wished I would have died right along with my parents. You know what he told me, after that? He said, ‘Miranda, if you had died that night, then we would never have met.’ And…well...I guess I knew I loved him then. We didn’t fight much, not after that,” she added wryly.   

"You still love him?” Lydia asked, wondering if the time they spent apart made her love for him wan, or if their passion had cooled naturally with time.

“Leliana asked the same thing when I saw her.” Miranda revealed. “I do. More than I can ever say.” 

Cassandra told Lydia that Leliana had once traveled with the Hero of Ferelden, though Lydia never asked to hear the events from the spymaster. Leliana was always too preoccupied, too difficult to warm up to.

“I miss him though,” Miranda went on. “As much as I detested what was happening and what I had to do, he made me happy. Happier than I ever thought I would be. He makes me happy now.”

“How so?” Lydia found herself asking.

“He made me laugh, and he made the days easier. My days are easier now, even though we’re apart. It’s the promise of seeing him again that makes me want to keep going.”

“Will you return to him, once this is over?”

“Maker’s breath, I hope so.”

Lydia’s reply of “you will,” was left unsaid as Miranda glanced back up at Lydia, surprising her when once again, she revealed she envied her.  “It’s not hard for you. To accept it, I mean,” Miranda elaborated. “I watched you a little, when I could. You know what you have to do as the Inquisitor. You don’t complain, at least outwardly, even though you have every right to. When you came to the conclave this was probably the last thing you ever expected.”

“It was,” she admitted, “but it happened.

“You say that so nonchalantly, like it hasn’t been a burden at all.”

“Trust me, it has been,” Lydia said, “but who else would do this, if not me? I can close rifts, and I survived Haven.” There was a pang of longing when she thought of Cullen’s arms carrying her. She shook it aside. “I’m through with analyzing why I’m here. I am here. I have to do something.”

“And that’s why I envy you,” Miranda confessed. “I was reluctant with everything I did back then. Every night I lay awake and cursed whoever put me here. You’re aren’t like how I was, or still am sometimes. You aren’t like Hawke either, who still can’t accept. You already have. And you haven’t lost yourself like I did. Maker, sometimes I still lose myself.”

“I don’t think you lost yourself,” Lydia stated. “You’re here now, trying to help.”

“Miranda did get lost for a while,” she reminisced. “Lost her path, couldn’t accept herself. Miranda may be lost now, trying to find something that may not exist.”

“A cure for the calling?”

She nodded. “We pay a heavy price to be Wardens. I think sometimes, maybe I’m selfish for wanting a life free of this.”

“You’re not.”

Miranda smiled. “You’re unbelievable you know,” she said. “You see the good in people. You believe in them. You…wait, what’s wrong?”

Lydia angled herself away from Miranda, the woman who believed in something that wasn’t there. Not since the Circle had she felt more ashamed of herself, when they all called her an instigator. Not since she had said the things she said to Cullen.

“Lydia?”

“I…I’m not unbelievable,” she told Miranda, shame continuing to web itself inside her. “I…I want to believe in everyone, I really do. I want to say that I can see the good in everyone, but I did something, and—"

Miranda cocked an eyebrow. “Oh. You’re referring to what happened with the Commander in the garden.”

She knew about it too. Wonderful. “Yes,” Lydia admitted.

“Well, it seems like you were hurt, from what I saw up above,” Miranda said. “But you should know. He wasn’t born detesting mages.”

“No, he chose it. He chose to be blind. That’s what makes it worse.” She tried to shake it away, the remembrance of the hurt in his eyes. “Doesn’t mean I should have said what I said.”

“Talk to him.”

“He hates me now.”    

Miranda scoffed. “Oh, I don’t believe that for one minute. He wouldn’t have reacted the way he did otherwise.”

“He can’t look at me and not see a mage,” Lydia said. “He can’t look at me and not see how dangerous I am. If he said that about mages—”

“He didn’t always think that.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Actually…I...hmmm...."

But Miranda twirled a loose wave in her finger, and said no more.

“Miranda?”

She sighed, realizing that she couldn’t get out of this. “Lydia,” she began, with some hesitancy, “I don’t know what he has told you about his past. In Ferelden, during the Blight." 

Lydia straightened. "Cullen was involved in the Blight? He had family that didn't make it," she remembered him telling her about his parents. "But I think he was a templar at the time." 

“You know what happened in Ferelden’s Circle during the Blight, right?”

“Of course,” Lydia replied. “Blood mages, abominations. It’s a story they all told us when they warned of blood magic in Ostwick.”

“Did you know who one of the remaining templars was? The only remaining templar?”

“No? I mean… _oh_ …”

He was there, during the Blight. Cullen was there. He was there and she didn't...

Why hadn't she made the connection before?

"What happened?" she asked Miranda.

"He wasn't himself. Something happened to him.”

“What happened to him?”

Miranda sighed. She didn’t want to go back and relieve those memories, but she did. “When we were in the Tower, and the abominations took over, we had to climb to the top. There was…only one left alive.”

Cullen. Cullen, the only one left. 

Miranda relayed the events of that night, and Lydia felt the stopping of her heart. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was very lucky to have Cullen and Lydia done by the lovely @merrillydoodles over at tumblr! Art has now been included with Chapter One and here's a link to her tumblr: http://merrillydoodles.tumblr.com/  
> Go give some love!


	20. Prayer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING for PTSD. (not as bad as the last chapter.)

Once again, Dorian was cheating.

Cullen resisted the urge not to laugh as he saw what Dorian was trying to do to tip the game in his favor. It was the same trick Branson sometimes pulled. “Is this the way they teach you how to play chess in Tevinter?" he badgered as he took the queen and second game in a row. "At least find a better way to cheat than that.”

Dorian tsked at him. “So smug. Is that how they tell you Ferelden to act when you win? To gloat and preen like a peacock?”

“I am not preening.”

“So says the Commander as he leans back, puffing out his chest.”

Caught, Cullen slumped himself over. Mia used to tell him the about the exact same thing when he bested her. She would also stick her finger at him and scold that he shouldn’t be so smug. Thankfully Dorian only laughed and didn't stick his finger at him. Even if he was now laughing at his expense, Cullen had been grateful for the game of chess Dorian offered him that morning. A calm before the storm as it were, and Dorian claimed Cullen had spent far too long with a serious and angry expression on his face. Not knowing the next time he would be back here again to enjoy a lighthearted moment, Cullen decided to play a few games.

Once they began the march to Adamant, there would be no more lighthearted moments. Cullen tried not to dwell on that for too long.

He had to come to terms with the fact that he had to however. I was now midday, and there was to be a meeting in the war room about it at noon. "I should probably..."

Dorian waved his hand dismissively,  “I know, I know, you have to return to your work.”

Cullen rolled the queen in his hand. He had avoided Lydia when she first arrived. Today it was inevitable that he would see her. He played the imagined scenario in his head more times then he should have. What would happen when he saw her again? They couldn't go on as before. That was abundantly clear.

Dorian must have sensed what he was thinking about. He was there that day in the garden, though he was courteous enough not to say anything about it. He did ask now however, if Cullen had spoken to her yet.

“No,” he replied, too stiffly.

“She regrets what she said.”

Thinking of her was a mess of contradictions in his mind. He wanted to see with his own eyes that she had returned to Skyhold, safe and unharmed, but he remembered what she said to him. He remembered how he lied to her, and he couldn't.

“Cullen. Really."

He sighed, at his wit's end. “What would you have me do?” he asked. “Go to her and say her words didn’t hurt when they did?”

“She was also hurt.”

Maker’s breath, he knew that all too well. “You probably agree with her, don’t you?” he challenged, ice in his voice. 

“I don’t think you’re a coward, if that’s what you mean.”

“Everyone’s a critic.”

“More sass from the commander,” Dorian commented, crossing his legs. “Yes. Everyone has an opinion. When I first met you, I knew exactly who you were. Did it matter? Not really. I needed your help to stop Alexius. Of course it didn’t matter what was written in that _Tale of the Champion_ book. It still doesn’t matter. I saw you at Haven, and I see how you treat me, who is, need I remind you, a mage from Tevinter. I’m not going to judge you for the past, not when I don’t want to be judged for my past.”

But she did. She judged him and there was nothing to be done about it. “I’m not saying I didn’t deserve her words,” Cullen clarified. “But what’s done is done. Whether she regrets what she said or not, she made it abundantly clear she wants nothing more to do with me.”

“I don’t think so.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Cullen said. “There’s only one thing that matters now.”

“What would that be?”

He stood, ready to head to the war room. “Making the world safe.”

He left the gardens, arriving early to the war room to set up the map for the Inquisitor’s reference. The march would take longer than it would take a smaller party to traverse to the Approach, as they would be bringing the siege equipment right along with them. Both the march and the battle would be agonizing and grueling. He couldn’t pretend that some of his soldiers wouldn’t make it out. He couldn’t deny that right there along with them, he could die as well, even with all the training he had been doing. But it was difficult without the lyrium, his abilities as a swordsmen no longer innate. He learned that in the Temple of Sacred Ashes, and relearning how to make something that was once innate was agonizing. He learned that training with Lysette and a few others as they refused to go easy on him, though that was just like he wanted. More than a few times he was bested. That only made him work harder, pushing his body near the limit.

Yes. He may not make it out of Adamant. But what did it matter, that he died? Many men better than him had already. She was the only one who had to stay alive. No matter what she said to him, he had to make sure she stayed alive.

“Cullen.”

He hadn't heard her voice in weeks, and it still made his pulse quicken. He thought that even before he realized she was back to "Cullen" again. Not Commander, as she kept calling him before in the garden. She was using his given name again, the name she called him when they talked as friends did.

His eyes flitted from the map to her figure that stood at the door, though he only saw her out of his peripherals. Things about her ebbed away in the eight weeks they spent apart. Day by day the form of her as she stood next to him became less corporeal, and more phantom-like. There, but faded. He couldn’t pinpoint the exact shade of brown of her hair, or perfectly recreate the exact shaping of her face. Not even her eyes could he recreate perfectly. Though he knew they were blue like the sea and not the sky, he was beginning to forget the exact shading, or if there were flecks of other colors within. He couldn't recreate in his mind the exact shape, and how the shades differed, depending on how her emotions flared.

Yet when he heard her call his name, there was something, he realized, that he didn’t lose at all. It had remained hidden in these weeks as he worked his body and trained, but seeing her now, hearing her, it made it spring right back to life. Unfortunately, it was the thing he desperately needed to ebb away.

His wanting.

After everything something still stirred within him as she said his name. Yet his mind, in it’s mess of contradictions, also sprung something else that he had suppressed: the hurt from the remembrance of what she said. His shame. His betrayal. His hurt at her own betrayal, because yes, he had betrayed her. By not telling, keeping it hidden, he betrayed her.

His greeting of “Inquisitor” was tight-lipped.

“Commander,” she tentatively croaked, switching to his title once again. “Do you think the two of us can speak, afterward?”

He avoided looking at her fully. “If it’s about Adamant, and the journey ahead, I will discuss it all here.”

“It’s something else.”

When he finally glanced from the map to her form, he drank in the sight of her. No longer a phantom in his memory, now she was real. Weary from her travels, he could see it in the lining of her eyes and forehead. Yet still radiant, like the sun.

He had to look away. If she was the sun then looking at her for too long it hurt. How was that even possible, that a person could have that effect on him? She wore that dress again, the one with the olive green colored skirt and white blouse that exposed her shoulders, revealing how the sun from the Approach had further darkened her skin. Today her hair was pulled away from her face, a braid adorning the top. He liked her hair down and loose, but pulled up he could better see the angles and plains of her face. The curve of her jawline, feminine nose, dainty lips. Almond shaped eyes. He avoided looking into those eyes.

“Can we talk afterward?” Lydia asked again. “I know you probably don’t want to. But there’s…something I need to tell you.”

She was sounding like she wanted to make a confession. “You said you were sorry that day."

“I know, but you were trying to get away from me. I don’t blame you, what I said was vile, but—"

“But what? You still think I’m vile?”

“Cullen,” she stated, edge creeping into her voice. “No. I know I gave you reason to despise me, but—"

“Inquisitor. We should return to the task at hand.”

He didn’t look at her as Leliana and Josephine made their way in, pouring over the map and discussing the strategy and march to Adamant. Lydia said nothing during this exchange, getting back to business and nodding to indicate she was taking in the information. Her face grew pale when Leliana explained that they would not be able to kill all the demons outright, but the choke points that were uncovered in the fortress could be utilized to cut her a path to Clarel.

Gravely, she stared at the diagram of the trebuchets and the fortress. “This is going to get a lot of our people killed.”

“Our people know the risks,” Josephine said, intending to comfort.

“It will be hard fought,” Cullen added, “but we will stand ready.”

Her brows furrowed, her head cocked. “What did you say?”

“We will stand ready,” Cullen repeated. “The siege equipment has been readied, forces gathered. We will stand with you to—"

“ _We_ , as in, you will go with the soldiers to Adamant?”

“Inquisitor, I am the commander of the army.”

“So you’ll just stand by and…command them, right?” She pressed her palms against the war table and leaned in. “You won’t rush off into battle with them?”

“I will do what I must to protect our men,” Cullen stated flatly. “If that means I must stand with them, then I will.”

“Is that wise?”

He took a deep breath. “Better men than me have already died,” he said. “If I do as well, for the Inquisition, so be it.”

“Do you remember what happened by the rift? You almost died!”

He felt Leliana and Josephine stiffening on both his left and right. Josephine had apparently found something very interesting to read on her parchments, and Leliana became very concerned about what was outside the window.

“We march to Adamant in exactly two days,” Lydia declared, crossing her arms. “That will be all.”

He felt the words that Lydia kept unsaid as he left to his office. He knew she was coming the minute he exited, and he should have just waited in the war room for the lecture. It took her less than five minutes for her to follow him to his office, closing the door with a loud thud behind her.

“We need to talk,” she announced.

He walked to the front of his desk, leaning against it and crossing his legs. “Yes, Inquisitor?”

“You’re insane.”

At the very least, he appreciated the bluntness. “You made that clear in the war room."

“The last time you fought, something was dangerously close to happening to you.”

“The last time I fought was during Haven,” he reminded her, as she was thinking of what happened near the rift when she pushed him out of the way. “We made it out fine.”

“You remember what you told me in the garden that day? All it takes is one stroke of bad luck.”

“Luck hasn’t failed me yet,” he said, feeling the weight of Branson’s coin in his pocket.

“Luck runs out.”

“I know the risks.” He straightened himself. “I will do what I must.”

“You could die!”

He was calm when he spoke. “Would it matter to you?”

“Yes!”

She was frustrated, more than anything now, wrapping her arms around her. “I know you don’t believe me after what I did,” she said, “but you have to know. I don’t feel that way. I’m sorry for what I said. It’s not true.”

It was true. That’s why it hurt.

Getting nothing but silence from him, she switched her strategy. “Think of it this way. You are the Commander of this army. I know our men look up to you. If something were to happen to you—"

“I’m expendable.”

“That's bullshit."

“Compared to you?" he fired back. "Yes Inquisitor, I am expendable. I must ensure you get safely through the fortress to Erimond and Clarel. I must ensure that you are successful."

She didn't say anything. "How am I better than anyone else here?" he asked at her silence. "I'm not."

"Don't say that."

"Why? Even if you regret your words, you made it clear what you think of me."

"I was wrong. I was hurt and I was confused. People say stupid things when they're hurt and confused. Now if you don't want to be my friend anymore, of whatever the _fuck_ we were before," she spat, her use of that word making him recoil, "then fine. Just...go to Adamant with your men, and whatever you do, _do not die._ "

"The words all jumbled together in her frustration. He took a deep breath. "If I die," he began, "I die for something I choose.”

Her livid fire cooled to icy rage. “How can you say that?” she demanded. 

“Because I have known too many who have died meaningless deaths.”

His friends. Running to him in Kinloch. The demon, and how it...

_No._

He fought off the memory. That memory, of being there again, in Kinloch. Throat burning, cage everywhere…

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing!” he stammered, coming back to reality. “Nothing.”

She didn’t believe him. She rubbed the base of her neck as he knew he often did, a sign of nerves, or frustration. All directed at him.

She did have a point, he was forced to admit. He could easily fall in battle, and she wouldn’t be there to save him for a second time. Before he could rely on the lyrium in his blood to block and dispel the demon’s attacks. Now, he had nothing more than his skill as a swordsman, but that wasn’t what it once was. Years of the lyrium seeping into his blood had given him his abilities, yet now that his body was purging itself of it, it was whittling him away.

Was it better to take it then? To have his abilities back, so he could better defend himself and his men?

He didn’t know he had suggested it, to take the lyrium again. Not really. Not until he saw her eyes widening, her mouth drop.

“Cullen,” she began. “You can’t do that.”

“Why not?” he questioned. “Wouldn’t it make you feel better?”

“No, it wouldn’t,” she said. “How many months have you been off it now? If you took it again you would ruin everything you have tried to do.”

“Do you know how many hours I have spent training, trying to have the skills and perception I once had?” It was relentless every night, and every night he would return to his loft more frustrated at himself. “If it makes me more alert, my abilities more powerful, then maybe..." He sighed, trying to convince himself this was a good idea. "You take it to help you in battle," he pointed out. "How is it any different?" 

It was very different, though he kept that unsaid.

She didn’t have an answer to that. Instead she became very interested in the ground.

“Inquisitor?” he called.

“I don’t take lyrium much to be honest.” She bit her lip. “Actually, I don't take it at all."

He was thunderstruck, unable to speak. He watched her as she peered at him, not ashamed. Proud of her decision. “I’ve seen what happens with it," she said. "How men go mad over it. I see how you want to break away. When I tried to take it again after you told me, it didn’t feel right.”

“But you’re a mage.”

“I’m aware. As you are aware, every time we’re together, I’m sure.”

“What I mean is, it doesn’t affect you like it does to us,” he clarified. Us echoed in his mind. It was still us, as much as he wanted to break away from the templars. “What if you run out of energy and need to defend yourself?”

“It’s the principle of the thing,” she remarked.

“You’re going to risk yourself and your abilities on principle?”

“Aren’t you?” she countered, crossing her arms.

He knew when he lost. He said nothing.

“Look. Let’s say I do take lyrium,” Lydia regaled. “Let’s say I take a potion in the middle of battle. Someone could cut me down while I’m not looking. And I cut down that dragon without a single potion, by the way.”

He wished he didn’t hear that. “Inquisitor…”

“Cullen,” she offered instead, wandering over to his desk and standing closer to him. “Look, when things began to fall apart in the Circle, usual supplies of lyrium were cut off. We had to learn how to live without it, so it’s not as though I have never done this before. Besides, when Solas showed me rift magic, he taught me how to use my mark to pull from the fade, and make my magic stronger.”

Oh, that made him feel so much better. “I wish you would—"

“I made a decision,” she silenced. “Please respect it. Respect it as I respect your decision to stop. I know can’t stop you if you want to take it again. But you made a choice to try and break the chains all those months ago. You can do this without the chains. And I know, I know, funny coming from me after what happened. But you must know. I truly am sorry. I have regretted what I said every day. I wanted to tell you how sorry I was, and still am. Every day."

“Doesn’t stop you from being right," he muttered.

“I don’t like what you said in Kirkwall,” she admitted. “I know that’s obvious.”

“I don’t either.”

He could feel her inch closer. “But…”

She didn’t say anything else, her body freezing. “But what?”

“But I…”

She toyed with her hands and said no more, at least for now. He still sensed he wanted to say them.

He broke some more distance between them, feeling more at ease to do so now. “What’s wrong?”

“I know about Kinloch. I know that…Cullen?”

No. _No._

Not again.

_Not again…_

 

* * *

 

There was no warning when it happened. One minute everything was fine. He was fine. His guarded coldness even began to dissipate. Now he was crumpling.

Lydia extended her arm as he took a step backward, moving over the shelves to support himself. “Are you…”

“Fine.”

He wasn’t fine. She didn’t know what to do as he clenched his eyes shut, his breathing shallow and uneven. “What can I do?” She asked, trying not to be frantic. “What can I—“

“Andraste preserve me,” he mumbled. “I’m not back there...I’m not back there. No…no…”

In his full armor he fell to the floor as he repeated the prayer, his eyes still clenched shut. He had gone pale, seemed a million years older, breathing strangled.

Lydia landed on her knees, crouching down near him and taking his hand. “You’re not there,” she chanted. “You’re not there. Cullen…”

“I can’t, I can’t—"

“Cullen.” She placed her hands on his face, damp with perspiration. “You’re not there. You’re safe now. I promise.”

He opened his eyes. “Lydia…”he breathed, helpless.

“It’s me,” she promised, relishing hearing him say her name again. “It’s me. Don’t say anything. Just breathe.”

She took a deep breath, wanting him to mirror it. Another one. Cullen understood what she wanted, and together the two took three deep breaths in a row. “You’re not back there,” she promised again. “I’m so sorry I—“

“No it…I don’t know why this is happening. It’s not as though I haven’t remembered before, but—"

“The lyrium used to quell things like this.”

He nodded, and though Lydia didn’t know exactly what all happened, as she only knew what Miranda knew, that he was trapped in a magical cage while his friends perished, she caught a glimpse of who he was that day. Frightened, crying for help, and needing to heal.

Her thumb brushed against his cheek, scratchy with his beard. “I won’t allow anything like that to happen to you again. I promise.”

He placed his hand against hers, the leather soft. Nodding. Believing.

“The one thing I’ve never wanted to remember,” he muttered. “One part of my life I never wanted anyone to know.”

“Oh Andraste I’m so sorry I brought it up,” Lydia said, beseeching him to forgive her. “I’m vile, I’m—"

“Shhh,” he quieted. “You didn’t know.”

She knew enough of it to understand. Enough to know she shouldn’t have brought it up. It would be like if someone brought up one of her memories to her. The memory of the fire, and what almost happened to her mother. And what happened the day that Asher…

“Lydia?”

“I’m fine,” she assured, knocking her senses back where they were. She smoothed the errant curl away from his face, another gesture she hoped he knew meant she was sorrier than words could say. “You are alright now though, right?”

He nodded. “Better.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“Just stay alive.”

She helped him up and regain his bearings. Steadily he returned to his usual form, regal and proud as it was. “I’m sorry again,” she muttered. “I am so, so sorry.”

“I should have told you before. I really should have. I lied.”

“That hardly matters. And you didn't lie exactly. You just, withheld the truth.”

That at least made him chuckle. “Even so. I’m sorry as well. I—I’m not proud of the man I used to be. I fear I still am sometimes.”

“I don’t know everything that happened to you in Ferelden or Kirkwall that made you say those things,” Lydia admitted. “I won’t ask. I don’t want you to relieve it again. But I know who you are now. You’re brave. You’re a good person. And you will go to Adamant and survive without lyrium. You’ll survive and tell your family how brave you are."

He promised her he would. In turn, she promised him she would survive this.

“Nothing is going to happen to me,” she said. “Nothing at all.” _Not when I know I must return to the Inquisition, and to you._

 

* * *

 

As Skyhold slept, he said a prayer that night, to the statue of Andraste. A prayer for those they had lost, and for those who they couldn’t lose.

_Maker, keep us safe. Allow us this victory, and shield her. Bring her back, safe._

“Bring her back to me,” he prayed to Andraste. “Please. _Please_.”

“Cullen.”

He felt Leliana’s presence before she spoke, and Cullen rose, nodding at the spymaster in greeting.

“You still have so much faith,” she said, meeting him halfway.

His faith was never constant. It sloped up and down when he was a templar, when he was in Haven. Now though, he believed she would come back. He believed the Maker would see her through.

Leliana joined him, standing by his side. “I fear for her,” she admitted, gazing at Andraste.

“As do I.”

Since Leliana had witnessed what happened on the battlements she had yet to give him her usual steely gaze or hold him contempt for what happened in his past. Together they now stood, Andraste as their witness, with their mutual desire to see this threw binding them together.  

“I never expected this,” Leliana murmured.

“No one would have ever suspected something like this.”

“Cullen,” she prefaced, something he could not place in her smile. “I wasn’t referring to Corypheus.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy crap. Chapter 20. Almost to 100,000 words. :0 
> 
> So I've been posting one chapter once a week and I hope to continue this trend, but we're getting to the part of the story now that I have to do some major rewrites and reworkings on, so updates might not be weekly, at least temporarily. (I'm hoping this won't be the case.) Also, reality is creeping it's ugly head into my life, and I have to make some preparations for the lovely GRE I'm taking. (Prayers please.)
> 
> Once again, I want to thank everyone who have left comments and kudos. I'm so humbled others are as invested in Cullen and Lydia as I am :)


	21. Assumptions

The night before the march to Adamant fortress, Lydia sat in her room.

Willa had sent her a letter. Her baby was due to arrive soon. Lydia wasn’t sure the next time she would be back at Skyhold, and the child could be as old as two months by the time she came back. When Lydia penned her reply she didn’t speak of Adamant of the long journey ahead, but instead wrote of happier times, and wishes of welcoming for the new miracle that would soon be in the arms of her best friend from the time before the Inquisition. Willa may have said she became a mother when she first knew she was pregnant, but all the same, Lydia wished her the best on the new journey that would begin. It was a journey no different from Miranda’s or Hawke’s, in certain respects. Or even Lydia's own journey as Inquisitor. Experiencing the unknown, sometimes letting instinct guide your decisions. Perhaps that’s what all journeys were made of.

Thoughts drifted to Cullen, and how such a proud, protecting man could so easily crumble to the floor, becoming the one that needed to be protected. He was a part of her journey, and amidst it all was his own inner path and discovery of absolution. The path to absolution, the one she had become an unwitting spectator of. He too was letting instinct guide him. It lead him away from the lyrium, away from the chains, and away from his old life.

They weren’t healed yet, the two of them. Truthfully whatever mending she had done in his office was probably akin to sticking a bandage on a cracked parapet. She wasn’t sure if they would ever go back to what they once were. At least he knew now she understood, or at least she hoped he did.

The evening spent alone was a quiet one, Lydia over her correspondences. Another letter from Bann Trevelyan arrived, and she promptly set it under a very large volume. One major battle at a time.

At the knocking at the door, Lydia let Leliana in, the spymaster following her to the center of the room in front of the fireplace. “There is something I wanted to ask you,” Leliana said, and for once, even though it was only a glimmer, Lydia could sense vulnerability in her spymaster. Her usual elegant and lithe frame, even if it was only a little, became a little wearier than it had been, and it continued when Leliana implored Lydia to keep Miranda safe.

“You are the one we must keep alive above all else,” Leliana calmly explained. “But I have few friends in this world. Fewer that I can trust above all else. I want her to remain alive, for as long as I can. She needs to succeed in her mission. She needs to come back home.”

On the road back to Skyhold, Miranda spoke of the stories Leliana used to tell around the campfire as they traveled through Ferelden, gathering the army. She told Lydia of the times they laughed, reminisced about their childhood and battled together. Two redheaded archers, one Ferelden and the other Orlesian with very different backgrounds, coming together and becoming sisters.

“What was it like?” Lydia inquired, thinking of those times Miranda and Leliana shared together. Moments of peace when the world was falling apart. “What was it like to travel through Ferleden, saving the world?”

“You should know more than anyone Inquisitor,” Leliana remarked. “Isn’t that what you’re doing now?”

Lydia contemplated that statement before her dreamless sleep, and when the march began that same question remained in her thoughts. Sometimes it didn’t seem real that that was what Lydia was doing, making sure the ones she held dear had a future to live for. Sometimes it felt like one task after the other. Get the mages from Redcliffe. Seal the breach. Go to Crestwood to meet the Warden, on and on. All a series of tasks meant to fulfill the single objective to foil Corypheus and his plans. Miranda mentioned that too to her, when they were together on the battlements in Griffon Wing Keep before returning to Skyhold. Sometimes she felt that her journey as a Grey Warden was nothing but a series of menial tasks and fetch quests to bring people to her side. The elves, the dwarves, on and on. It was becoming the same for Lydia. One task after another, one objective after another. Right now, it was Adamant, but after Adamant was over with, attentions would have to be brought to the peace talks in Halamshiral. 

The more they marched to the barren wasteland, the more the full weight of her title hung upon her shoulders. It was all the greater, because she knew what would happen if she failed. Such an overwhelming feeling, but what choice did she have? It was her duty.

During the day, the soldiers retained their own sense of duty, the march to Adamant almost somber. During the nights in the camp however, the soldiers laughed and drank, played Wicked Grace, and lived for the moment. If Adamant loomed over them they did not show it, the time spent in these moments were times better spent living and celebrating life than thinking of what lay ahead. Cullen didn’t seem to mind, and in fact, he seemed to encourage it. Maybe he did so because it was the least he could do.

Leliana compelled Lydia to not take the entirety of the inner circle to Adamant, so Lydia left Sera, Vivienne and Cole along with Leliana and Josephine. Lydia worried being around so many people would overwhelm Cole, while demons and magic and the like made Sera very squeamish. Vivienne wanted to work with Josephine to secure an invitation to the peace talks, and while Dorian intended to march to Adamant, an urgent letter from Tevinter compelled him to return for the time being. Felix was dying, he told her. His father was working in the Inquisition, and Dorian was now all he had left. There was nothing Lydia could do but let Dorian return.

He embraced her, before he left. Told her she was strong and formidable, and if she could make it through the spell Alexius cast, she could make it through this. She hoped he was right.

Of her party that she did take, Blackwall and Bull typically drank during the nights and were merry, as was Varric, though his attempts to bring Hawke into the revelry didn’t usually succeed. Cassandra sat to the side with her nose buried in a book, while Solas usually wandered, his mind and thoughts elsewhere. Like the narrator in the poem “Sailing to Arlathan” that Lydia used to read in the Circle, the temporary didn’t interest Solas. He was interested in the things that endured, hence why he often wandered into the woodlands during the night, to be in the fade.

Solas wasn’t the only one that was usually nowhere to be found when the traveling was done for the day. The Commander too hardly made any appearances. It was why it surprised Lydia to see him by a fire one night near the Orlesian city of Val Firmin, still in his armor, pinching the bridge of his nose and rubbing his temples all the while. It was rare to see him like this, so tired and weary. During the days he stoically sat atop his horse, a wheat colored Ferelden Charger that had the same color coat as his hair, watching and observing. Varric once ironically said that he kept the names and pictures of all the men under his command tucked away in his coat, and Lydia was beginning to think that was exactly right. Watching him now though, she was struck by how vulnerable he was. Vulnerable, weary, and perhaps even sad. Just like how he was, that day in her office.

She often thought of that boy trapped in the cage in Kinloch Hold. What did he see of her kind to make him think that mages could not be treated as others? Miranda spoke of the horrors they saw in the tower. Blood staining the ancient stone. Demons possessing mages and templars alike. The bodies of the fallen carelessly strewn about, bodies of people Cullen knew, people he might have very well have grown up with. What happened while he was trapped, and how did he survive? The fact that he was alive was a miracle. What was also extraordinary was the resilience he had, and the mental fortitude to see that what he said in Kirkwall wrong, and stand with Hawke in the end. How strong he was, to want to break the chains of his old life so badly, that he was risk his sanity and his mental clarity. How brave he was to know he had to relieve the night he never wanted to relieve again, just so he could be free.

Once, the first enchanter had the gall to tell Lydia that  the lyrium was a blessing. It made the templars forget the bad.

Did it also make them forget the good? Lydia asked her.

The final words spoken about the lyrium that night still haunted her. _Some of these men have nothing good to remember Lydia._

Gazing at Cullen, alone by a fire away from the boisterous conversations of the rest of the Inquisition, someone could have looked at his enervated form and thought he was one of those templars that had nothing good to recall. She suffered more than a person ever should suffer. Yet somewhere in the tapestry of his life there were happier times, times spent with his mother, father, and brother and sisters. Those were the memories he would not allow the lyrium to take away. Maybe it was a heavy price, to have to relieve the memories no one should have had to endure. Just as heavy was to remember the person you used to be. Cullen was willing to remember. Cullen was strong.

Whoever he was in Kirkwall, that wasn’t him anymore. But he chose to remember, so he could also remember the good. How she admired him.

“Thinking about the battle?”

Lydia was so deep in thought that she didn’t even realize Hawke, of all people, had taken a seat by her. Hawke was wearing her usual black cloak, though she had forgone the hood, and Lydia saw that she had cut her hair since the last time she saw her. It was much shorter now, about the same length as Cassandra’s.

“I suppose I am,” Lydia replied, stealing a few more glances at Cullen before turning her full attention toward the Champion.

“Not all your men are going to make it out,” Hawke forewarned.

Too grim a thought to consider. “I know, but—"

“You have to save as many innocents as you can,” Hawke stated flatly. “If that means making a sacrifice, then it means make the sacrifice. I made sacrifices. Miranda made sacrifices. What must be done must be done.”

There was no hint of her usual biting sarcasm, nor an underlying flippant tone to her words. Slowly, Lydia nodded.

She thought about getting up and leaving, going over to sit somewhere else, but she was compelled to stay by the fire with Rhine Hawke, compelled to ask this enigma of a woman what she planned on doing once this business with the Wardens was over. 

“Go back to Kirkwall,” Hawke answered, not missing a beat.

“Back to Fenris?”

She pursed her lips at the mention of his name, perhaps because it was a name Lydia had no right to utter. She was at the point now where she could consider herself Miranda’s friend. She didn’t think she could consider herself one of Hawke’s friends.

She gave a stiff reply. “Yes. Back to Fenris.”

“I’m sorry if I shouldn’t have brought him up.”

“I suppose Varric told you about us?”

When Lydia nodded Hawke shrugged, apparently indifferent. “We can’t help who we are drawn to.”

“Does it concern you, how he feels about magic?”

Hawke gave an ironic and bitter laugh, shaking her head and curling her legs to her chest. “I’m sorry,” Lydia quickly apologized when she received no answer, knowing she had now tread on forbidden territory. She may not have read the book, but she remembered what Varric had said. Fenris was wary around magic and mages, due to his past. It would be surprising if he wasn’t wary, considering what he had gone through.

“It figures you would ask,” Hawke replied. “No, it doesn’t matter. It’s not me that he worries for. It’s the abuse of magic, sort of like what’s happening now in the world.”

“That’s not what I asked,” Lydia corrected. “I asked if his views on magic matter or not.”

She was caught, and she answered truthfully. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?” Lydia repeated, expecting her to expand.

“We could never see eye to eye. But I understand why he feels…untrustworthy toward magic.”

Lydia considered this very carefully before she spoke. “So, Fenris is wary of magic because of the trauma from his past." 

“Wouldn’t anyone be wary if they were enslaved and made property?”

“Of course I would be,” Lydia said. “You forgive don’t you?”

“How could I not forgive him?” She demanded, growing frustrated at this game. “Whatever hardships I have suffered are nothing compared to what he went through in those years before.”

Lydia felt the grass under her hands as she continued to carefully chose her words. “Then why is Cullen so vilified?”

All the color in Hawke’s face drained. When she did speak she kept that air of flippancy, her mask, shielding the fact that Lydia had struck a chord. “Well,” Hawke began at last, “You need to—”

“No. Wait,”

Hawke raised her eyebrows and recoiled, but let Lydia continue. “Did you know what happened to him in Ferelden, during the Blight?”

“Some,” she admitted. “But whatever he suffered doesn’t excuse his—”

“I don’t know what exactly happened to him, it’s true,” Lydia interjected, though she knew she knew enough. _He was exhausted when we found him,_ Miranda said to her. _Half-crazed. I don’t know how long he was in there, but he spoke of seeing his friends die, a demon that tried to claw into his mind. He wouldn’t speak of anything else. But I know Inquisitor. I was in the tower. I saw the aftermath of what happened. I was only there for a few hours. How he could be there for so long…how did he have the mental strength to come back from that?_ “I know enough to know that whatever it was should be something that no one should have to go through,” Lydia finished.

“No one should be called a dog, kept caged and kept as a plaything Inquisitor.”

“No,” Lydia agreed. “But—”

“I don’t hate Cullen,” Hawke revealed, interjecting Lydia this time. “I know you must think that after what I said about him. But I don’t, and I never did.”

“He’s just the easy one to blame, isn’t he?”

“Since Meredith is dead, yes,” Hawke said. “Don’t underestimate me though. I still think he is partly to blame. What did he do when it was clear Meredith was taking it too far?”

“Stand with you in the end when it mattered?”

“Yes yes, better late than never,” Hawke scoffed.

“It takes a long time sometimes to truly accept something you once revered isn’t working,” Lydia said. “Look. You don’t have to like Cullen or even speak to him again. I just…I wish I would have known what I know now before I…”

She sighed. She never would forgive herself for that.

Hawke too sighed, “Cullen isn’t a coward,” she finally confessed and Lydia knew that revelation hurt her pride. “Maybe he was misguided for most of the time I knew him. But, maybe not a coward.”

“No, he’s not,” Lydia stated. “And he respects his Inquisitor. A mage.”

“He does,” Hawke agreed, with some trepidation.

“He saved me,” Lydia said, willing her to see the good in him. “I respect him and what he’s trying to do. The Grey Wardens allow harlots, blood mages, anyone strong enough to stand and fight the darkspawn. Their old lives and selves are cast aside. I will do the same now for Cullen, because if Corypheus wins, we are all doomed. And I am done making assumptions about others.”

“Just like how you made assumptions about me?”

Hawke huffed at Lydia’s dumbstruck expression. “Come now,” she chided. “I know you did.”

Lydia did, though she kept herself silent.

“It’s all right. I made assumptions about you too Fire, when Varric first wrote to me about you. The truth is though, I really don’t know who you are.”

“Maybe you don’t want to,” Lydia mumbled.

“Maybe I don’t,” Hawke echoed. “But I’m sure you and Cullen will be wonderful together. I hope you remain happy with him.”

“We’re not… _together_ ,” Lydia defended, taking some time to search for the right word. “Why are you saying that—”

“Criticize me for who I love,” Hawke said, rising, throwing her cloak over her shoulder. “Try to tell me I was wrong about your Commander, and I shouldn’t judge him because of his past. You know why I still judge him? Because he let an experience justify ten years’ worth of bad decisions. He still said mages, you and I, mind you, shouldn’t be treated like people. Who is prejudiced enough to believe that one bad experience is how the entire group acts?”

Lydia could think of a few people. 

“I know how it is,” Hawke chided. “Cullen. You felt something for him didn’t you? So do the others. They talk about.”

“What?” Lydia demanded, too dumbstruck to get to her feet. “That—"

“Oh hush. That’s why you were so angry after I told you. Why you made that display in the garden. That’s why you’re defending him now, isn’t it? You—"

“How about you stop making assumptions?” Lydia asked, finally rising. “How about everyone stop making assumptions? You don’t know how I feel.”

“You don’t know how I feel either Fire,” Hawke remarked. “Now. Goodnight.”

When Hawke left Lydia fell to her bedroll, mortified, and cursing at herself. Part of her couldn’t believe what happened happened, the other part of her repeated the same chant.

She had fucked up.

She shouldn’t even have opened her mouth. And her relationship with Cullen…what in Andraste’s name was Hawke trying to insinuate? She was lying that people spoke about them too. Anyone could see that they were only friends, or at least she hoped they still were. But it was almost as if Hawke was saying that she…

Had feelings for him?

Only one person stirred the feelings of romance in her. Asher. She didn’t know why at the time it was happening, and the first pangs of infatuation made themselves known. She just remembered being in the Circle library, seeing him for the first time, seeing his charming, beguiling smirk and feeling a twinge of something magnetic she had never felt before. There were butterflies inside whenever she saw him afterward, and when he took her in his arms and kissed her for the first time she felt as though she had something exciting in her life. Something thrilling and new. For the first time since coming to the Circle.

But now…with Cullen?

It was impossible after what she said. If they could once again talk as friends she would be lucky. But would he take her into his life, allow her to know the private recesses of his thoughts? His hopes and dreams for the future? Allow him to hold her again when once again something made him remember the things he didn’t want to remember?

Even if she hadn’t done what she did, it was impossible. Not after the way he saw mages. He was escaping from his old self, yes, and at the place where he could talk with her, laugh with her, and play a friendly game of chess with her or Dorian. But loving a mage, holding them, kissing them, being with them like that, that was another matter entirely.

Yet when she looked at him, she saw tenderness and something beyond the hard lines of duty and torment that had marked themselves on his face, and lay burned in his eyes. He looked at her, and she wasn’t sure, but maybe he really did want, in much the same ways she may have wanted him.

But she couldn't even answer her first question. Did she want to be and Cullen’s arms the same way Asher once took her in his arms?

She thought of his face. The carving of his prominent cheekbones, hooded and crinkled eyes, sculpted nose, and slightly cleft chin. A face that could be perhaps called delicate, yet still masculine and strong. She thought of his eyes, looking at her with the inherent tenderness few had ever given her. Even Asher. She thought of his lips, often in a satisfied smirk, tugging his scar upward. Likely she would feel the scar if the two of them kissed. Under her lips and tongue, the two of them together on the battlements. His smell of elderflower mingled with oakmoss, enveloping her and holding her as moments passed between them.

She thought of this, holding him and being with him. Kissing him.

She soared.

She cursed herself, burying her head in her bedroll. She was ignorant.

It was impossible. Not with the world the way it was. Not when she had said what she said. And not when she was a mage. Even if he had broke away, he was still a templar. And there was nothing to be done about it.

These fantasies were nothing more. Fantasies. War, battle, and sacrifice. That was her reality. The sooner she got back to it, the sooner the world would be safe again.

 

* * *

  
On the eve of battle, before they stood ready, Cullen put on his armor, recalling the last time he put on his armor before the onslaught of battle. Back then in Haven, he woke up, and put on his armor piece by piece. He put on his armor that morning and never suspected Haven would fall.

This time, they would not be taken by surprise. This time, Corypheus would lose.

They prepared to strike at the fall of night. The battalion stood ready as the engineers manned the siege equipment, Cullen painstakingly checking every single one. They waited for his signal, and Cullen waited for the fall of night. As sunset fell, so did the silence. It became eerily calm at Adamant, and as Miranda said, Erimond was preparing them. So the Inquisition prepared too.

In this last hour, during the calm before, Cullen sat in his tent for a little while, reciting that same prayer he had recited thousands of times in his life. _Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter. Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just._

It meant something other than fear once. He supposed now it could mean a prayer for the Inquisition. Blessed were those who stood before the demons, giving their blood to make the world right.

At the shuffling outside his tent however, Cullen emerged, not as surprised as he could have been to see who was standing there.

“Hawke,” he stated, not a greeting or an acknowledgement, merely a statement.

“Commander,” she offered in return. “Are you ready?”

He nodded in affirmation.

She crossed her arms, tilting her head to Adamant Fortress. “I will stand with your men,” she said.

“I thought you would be by her side,” Cullen replied, referring to Lydia.

“It has been suggested a small party go with the Inquisitor, as a smaller party has an easier time moving about. The Warden will be with her, as well as the Seeker and that Qunari that’s apparently called the Iron Bull. Also, that elf insisted to come along, something about demons and spirits, and honestly I stopped listening after a while to what he was saying.”

They had spoken of the plan and who the Inquisitor would take with her before, but Hawke went over it with Cullen again, as her decision to change tactics and meet Lydia inside instead of moving with her inside the shield wall modified things a bit.

“Cullen,” Hawke stated after she was done. “When I go with the Inquisitor. Make sure Varric is safe.”

“Make sure she’s safe,” he told her in turn.

They weren’t going to shake on it. They didn’t have that relationship. Instead, she nodded, and before she parted, wished him luck.

“Maker watch over you Rhine,” he muttered.

She didn’t scorn him for using her first name. Instead, she said something that he never thought she would utter.

“Never thought you would apologize for this,” Cullen said, pointing to the scar on his lip.

“Seems as good a time as any.”

“It’s alright,” Cullen assured. “It wasn’t the first time I was hooked like that." Granted, he was a boy at the time trying to defend Mia from a neighborhood bully, and spiked gauntlets did more damage than bare fists. “You weren’t even the one that did it,” he pointed out to Rhine.

“No, but he’s not here right now. I honestly don’t think he would apologize, anyway. At least I can.”

She still despised him, but he supposed that was alright. “Good luck Rhine.”

“Good luck Commander.”

After she sauntered off he searched for Lydia, not seeing her blue coat in the array of green Inquisition uniforms bent over in prayer. He should have known immediately were to find her. She spent a lot of her time in Skyhold on the battlements, overlooking the mountains. In the Approach the sand dunes replaced the mountains, but none the less, there she was at the edge of camp, overlooking them. She stood alone, already fully dressed and with hair pulled back in the armor Harritt made for her. It was supple, well reinforced August Ram leather that protected, yet allowed her the maneuverability to cast spells and dart from one end of the field to the other. She held her staff in her hands, using it to support herself as she gazed in the distance.

“Lydia?” Cullen asked gently, not wanting to startle her. “Are you…”

“Fine,” Lydia replied, turning to Cullen.

She looked at him in an odd contemplative way that he could not place, as if she was considering something. “Are you…?”

“It’s nothing,” she said, though the inflection indicated it was anything but nothing. “I just want you to know…if I don’t make it out…”

“You will,” he promised.

She sighed, biting her lip. “What will you do Cullen?” she asked.

“I’ll do what I have to.”

“Please be alright.”

Her eyes pleaded with him, entreating, and compelling him. “Stay alive,” he said again. “Whatever you do. If you stay alive, then…”

Then I’ll be alright. He didn’t say it, but she could sense it all the same. She knew it.

 

* * *

 

“Are you ready?”

Lydia stood, there with Miranda, Solas, Cassandra and Bull, overlooking Adamant, and waiting Cullen’s signal. “I don’t know,” she replied, wanting to be honest.

“I remember the feeling I felt, before the battle for Denerim,” Miranda mused. “My advice? Don’t think. Just attack. Don’t hesitate either.”

“She’s right boss,” Bull chimed in. “See any demons coming? Knock them away.”

“But be careful Lydia,” Cassandra added. “If you fall, then—"

“I know what happens Cassandra.”

“I wish I had more advice,” Miranda said. “Some inspirational quote or something. But before the battle Alistair was the one who gave the speeches.”

Lydia chuckled a little. “Well, I appreciate the thought.”

“There is one thing I can say. I know luck brought you here. Or maybe back luck. But you deserve to be here.”

Miranda took Lydia’s hand. Squeezed it. Lydia hoped she knew that meant more than words could ever say.

It was about to begin. Lydia searched for Cullen in the distance, standing behind the mounted trebuchets.

Their eyes met. She wished she was near him, so once again she could tuck that stray curl away, like she did before. A thousand unsaid things passed between them instead. Lydia had never really prayed before. Wasn’t sure if the Maker was real or not, but right here and now, she chanted, _Maker keep him safe. Keep us all safe. Do not let him fall when I cannot catch him…_

The Commander stood, determined and strong, carrying a willingness to see this through to the bitter end. He was all amber and honey and gold. Soft, yet strong and full of courage. Beautiful.

_Maker keep him safe…_

Slowly, Cullen gave the signal.

The trebuchets flew through the air, and it began.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem Lydia refers to about Solas is my own Thedas version of the real life poem "Sailing to Byzantium" by Yeats. One of my favorite poems. 
> 
> Okay guys I pride myself in my weekly updates but as I said last week, in my real life I got a lot of studying to do. You can probably expect the next chapter by next Sunday, but that's not a for sure thing. However you can follow me on tumblr and ask me questions about life, writing, cullen, lydia and other stuff here: https://a-shakespearean-in-paris.tumblr.com. I'll probably post updates on life and stuff if your curious. Plus, lots of Cullen. 
> 
> Anyway, once again, thank you so much for the support :)


	22. Waking Dream

Broken, but not yet shattered. Until that moment came, when he lay in shattered ruin, he would stand fighting.

His body was shaking, and there was not a single point or juncture where he did not ache. There was a pounding in his head, incessant drums thundering in his ears. His hands shook, the sword in it too heavy, the shield already fallen on the ground.

Maybe he was shattered. Maybe he wasn’t even alive.

So many were already dead.

Grey Warden mages, who couldn’t be saved. Warriors who didn’t believe Lydia when she tried to convince them they were being used by Erimond. Their own men who had lost their lives to the demons. Scanning along the stone walls he saw them. Kester, Lucian, Maeve, Roman. It was like how it was back in Haven, seeing the line of men and women who had fallen for their cause. It was like how it was back at the Circle, when…

_No…Not now. Please not now not…_

“Cullen!”

The sound of Rylen’s voice brought him back. In a rush Cullen dropped his sword and ran to his second, grabbing a hold of him to make sure this was no trick of the fade. “You made it,” he stated, gripping his shoulder. “You’re alive.”

“You’re alive,” Rylen echoed.

“I’m alive,” Cullen repeated, though he wasn’t sure if he felt it. “What’s the status? What’s going on?”

“I got a look at the fortress. There’s still demons coming through the rifts, but we captured Erimond. The Wardens who aren’t possessed are helping fend them off.”

“The dragon?” Cullen asked. He had seen it, but he hadn’t seen it since Lydia bolted to Clarel.

“Flew off,” Rylen explained. “We haven’t won yet, but the worst is over.”

“The worst is over.” He said it, but the weight was not gone from his shoulders. “Over,” he said again, as if that would make it all go away, as if the words could make it all real.

“Cullen. There’s something else. It’s about the Inquisitor.”

“What about her? Where is she?”

Rylen turned grave, and white, and Cullen knew.

“What happened to her?” Cullen demanded. “Where…?”

“Cullen, we don’t know exactly but…wait, where are you going?”

Cullen frantically searched the courtyard’s perimeter, not daring to look down at the ground at the scattered bodies. She couldn’t be there, he told her not to stay and fight in the courtyard, he told her to go after Clarel. She obeyed. His pace quickened as he zoomed through the battlements, going through the path she took. He froze when he Clarel’s body, her eyes frozen upwards at the sky. She would have been here somewhere, he realized, her, with her party. They should be here, standing in victory. Where was she, where was Cassandra and the others? Where was Hawke did she catch up with the others? Did Miranda stay with them?

But she wasn’t there. None of them where. They weren’t anywhere.

“Cullen!”

Rylen again, rushing behind him.

Cullen ran to meet him. “Where she is?” he demanded. “Where is Lydia? Where is everyone else?”

“Cullen. The Inquisitor and the others…they were last seen…”

“Where?” he demanded once more, grabbing onto him so tightly Rylen almost lifted off the ground. “Where were they Rylen?”

Rylen swallowed. “Cullen. She and the others fell through a rift.”

Everything stilled, and yet there was still the pounding of drums as Rylen spoke of the collapsing bridge, the dragon, Lydia falling, opening a rift and…  
He didn’t know he was stumbling until Rylen was steadying him.

 

* * *

 

“Lydia!”

Collapsing on the ground, Lydia took one moment, and then another, willing her dizzying thoughts to abate and quell.

“Lydia!” Cassandra called again.

“Dammit Cassandra! It was never Andraste that saved me!” Lydia spat, gripping her staff and using it to support herself up from the uneven ground of the fade, stumbling as if she was drunk.

“Does it matter?” Cassandra demanded. “You were here when we needed you. You—”

“You think I’m a fraud. The demon said so!” She accused.

“The Nightmare demon is using our fears against us,” Solas said, in an almost damnable matter of fact way. “It’s playing on our fears and doubts.”

“If that was Justinia’s spirit, or her memory, it doesn’t matter,” Miranda added. “We have to follow her and then we can get out of here!”

“She’s right,” Solas agreed. “We have to remember that.”

Bull stood by, tall and unwavering. “The longer we stand here, the more men we may lose.”

He was right. They were all right. Lydia looked forward, Justinia leading the way through the fade. Her spirit, or memory, or whether it was, it didn’t matter. She was helping them, and she was luminescent in the darkness, a bright light against the dull colors that all bleed together in this place in the raw fade.

This was no time for a personal crisis. They were already in a crisis. They had to move.

“We have to make it back to our men,” Lydia said simply, gaining her bearings.

“Yes, yes, we must get back,” Hawke suddenly spat, startlingly Lydia. “We have to get back to the Inquisition, whose men are currently fighting demons summoned by the Wardens!”

“We can’t argue about this now!” Miranda shouted, matching Hawke’s belligerence. “Look what’s happening! Look where we are!”

“We wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for the Wardens! They go too far and you know it Miranda! Isn’t that why you want to break away? I’ve seen my fair share of this. There’s always a reason to justify bad decisions, and look where that’s taken us now!”

“So bad decisions are acceptable if they’re your bad decisions?” Miranda fired, rushing closer to Hawke. “You tore a city apart and started a mage rebellion!”

“To save innocent mages! Everything I have done is to save innocents!”

“That’s what the Warden’s do, dammit! We were misled, but the intentions were good. We saved some of the Wardens, and we only have to—"

“Oh yes, yes, everyone thinks their intentions are good!” Hawke shouted. “Everyone thinks that until they look outside and see that the world has fallen apart, and by then it’s too late!”

“Maker’s breath, both of you just shut up!”

Bewildered silence fell between Hawke and Miranda as Lydia’s piercing cry ricocheted off the disembodied walls.

“Inquisitor—"

“Hawke,” Lydia interrupted, stopping Hawke’s garbling. “We don’t have time for this! Right now my Commander stands with an army of the Inquisition’s men who are giving their lives, while we stand here and bicker about who the right person to blame is. There is no one to blame but Corypheus and if we don’t get out of here then the nightmare demon will—”

_Kitten._

Hawke jolted. “Wait, what’s going—”

_Kitten._

A voice echoed throughout. _The Nightmare has found you_ , someone was saying. Justinia?

That wasn’t the Nightmare demon. That…that was…

Was it?

_Kitten._

She gasped at the hand on her shoulders, the rough palm and digits covered in a steel gauntlet digging possessively into her shoulder and forcing her to stand flush against his body.

_Kitten. You don’t look happy to see me. You were always so happy before._

Was this…was this really him? Was this really Asher?

There was nothing behind her or to her side. Only Asher. Asher and his jovial, lopsided smirk. Asher and his brown eyes, brown like the deepest earth. Maker, she wanted this to be real, wanted this to be him. Wanted to believe that everything until now was nothing but a trick of the fade, and Asher was the reality.

But Asher was never the reality. Not even when she had him. Maker, how she wanted to believe, but...

 _You’re not alive,_ she said, but it was like she was speaking underwater, the words not traveling. She was underwater, unable to breath, his body an anchor that kept her pulled into the abyss.

 _Kitten,_ he chided.

_Where is everyone else? Where are my friends? What are you—_

_Don’t be silly. You came here alone._

_No, I didn’t I…Cassandra. Solas, Bull. Miranda and—_

_You did._

His arms felt like fences around her, encasing her and pressing him into the hard and uncomfortable breastplate of his templar uniform. Where his eyes always like that as they stared into her? Cold like a snake, no warmth in the brown? Did he always snarl at her like she was his property and plaything to toy with as he pleased?

She did not expect the kiss when it happened, and it made her cry out, teeth nipping and tongue forcing an entrance inside her mouth that it forced her to remember the kisses he used to give her in their clandestine meetings in the Circle. They were kisses of possession, yes. Maker, was this though, this rough conquering assault, was this how he always used to kiss?

 _Kiss me back kitten_ , he demanded, pulling away to snarl at her, his hot breath on her neck. _Kiss the man you killed._

_I didn’t kill you Asher, it was Corypheus and the explosion. It wasn’t me, I—_

_No. You did. You could have gone with me. We could have lived together, gone back to Ostwick. Had a cottage by the sea. Just like you always wanted. And look what happened. Look what you ruined._

She cried out as his gauntlets gripped her shoulders and continued to dig into her flesh. _You killed me. You walked into the conclave, you mage whore. You walked into the conclave when all you wanted was to be with me, live with me and make yourself mine. You know it’s true. You know it. You ruined everything. Now you’re going to ruin the Inquisition. You’ll never be free, and everyone will die._

“That’s not true!” She shouted, resurfacing from the water, shoving herself away. “You’re lying!”

_You wanted to be with me!_

“Yes! Yes, at one point, yes, I did!” She admitted, helpless.

Then follow me. Let me take you. You know you will never win this battle. You know you will never be free. You always knew you were nothing but a mage whore. Girl that instigated things she could never have. Girl who will never be strong enough to fight through this. You know it. You know it…You know you will lose and everything will be lost.  
You know he’s right Lydia.

“No…you’re not…Mother, it’s not you!”

The thing that took her mother’s face and voice was coming toward hear, taking her and propelling her away. Lydia was looking into a mirror, seeing her mother as she saw herself, the only differences being Lydia’s now shorter hair and olive skin where her mother had longer hair and skin the color of milky white. Everything else was nearly identical. The same shapes and plains, the same upward flex of the right eyebrow even. It was all the same as her memories, yet it wasn’t her, it wasn’t her…

 _Lydia_ , the mirror of her mother was saying. … _I am your mother…I am your mother You cannot do this. You know you must resist. What good have you even done love? You killed so many in your wake. Can’t you hear the screams that they are making? Can’t you hear them cry out in agony as they begged you to spare them? And look what you did. You killed them. Just as you will kill so many more!_

Her eyes clamped shut. She heard them, Maker she heard them and there was nothing she could do but pray it would be over soon. She heard him in the Hinterlands, the first man she cut down with her fire. The fellow mage she had slaughtered. The look of surprise in his eyes, not expecting this frightened and wounded deer to tear him down. The way his agonized screeches never stopped until he was falling to the ground, gone, dead…dead because of her fire…dead because Cassandra said it needed to be done, and—

“No!” Lydia shouted, gripping her hair, twisting it until she was almost pulling it from her scalp. “No! This isn’t real. You’re not her!”

You couldn’t save them all at Haven. You have killed so many since.

“I have only killed those who have harmed others!”

_How do you know that Lydia? How do you know? Better to die Lydia. Better to…_

“No!” This wasn’t Asher. This wasn’t her mother. “This isn’t what you—she said to me. This isn’t her! You—demon…you aren’t her! You aren’t her…you aren’t…”

_You won’t even be able to save me._

No…that wasn’t, really that wasn’t…

Cullen?

Cullen’s voice, the softness he often used with her unladen in the words now, but it was Cullen’s voice, and it was Cullen who grabbed her hand. Cullen who’s gloved hand was touching her cheek, bringing her into him.

_You think you can save me, little girl. You think you can care for me and everything will be better. I’m going to die too. I’ll die and you will be the one that will kill me._

This wasn’t him. This man, this thing could never recreate Cullen’s eyes, and the tenderness in them. Cullen looked at her and he saw more than what this thing saw. This thing only saw her fear. Cullen saw her fear, her joy, and her sorrow. He looked at her and saw her everything.

This thing was not the man that she cared for.

_You’ll lose me…you’ll lose me…_

The demon that took his form cackled at her, and Lydia shrieked out as they all encircled her. _Mage whore. Instigator. False Herald. False Inquisitor that will kill us all. False Inquisitor that will never be free._

The cacophonous chant repeated, over and over until it became a welter and jumbled mess that sent her over the brink screaming in madness. This would never end. She would be here forever, this Nightmare prying into her mind until she went mad and ended it. But she was better than this. She was strong, she was—

_The strength to overcome is inside you, my love._

Her mother had said that, once in another life. The strength to overcome, the strength to find the fire within, the strength to endure this. That was her. That was who she was. She had the strength. She always had the strength to burn.

The fire was everywhere, in her palms and in her body, rushing through her veins and soul. The fire drowned out the screeches the aspect of the Nightmare demon in the mask of her mother, Asher and Cullen made in a growing crescendo, imploring her to stop even as she turned them all into ashes.

“No,” she declared, the mine of fire and barrage of flame spilling from her staff. This was the nightmare, this was what it wanted, to tear her down with her fear until she was quaking with terror and despair. This is what it wouldn’t get.

_Lydia…Lydia…Love me. Love the man you killed, the mother whose heart you broke. Love the man you will never be able to save._

From the ashes, there she was. “You will have no power over me.”

“Inquisitor!”

Everything came right back into focus in her vision, and she was left breathless and dizzy. The fade, Justinia, finding a way out, it all came rushing back. Lydia turned to the voice she had heard, real, here, and no longer disembodied.

“Solas!” she exclaimed, coming over to him.

“It’s the demon!” he said. “The Nightmare is using our fear against us! But you knew, how did you…?”

“I just knew,” Lydia said, half answering him before looking around at her companions. Cassandra, Bull, and Miranda were on the ground, thrashing this way and that way, trapped in the Nightmare’s fevered dream.

“The demon is trying to—"

“Solas, help them!” Lydia commanded, frantically realizing Hawke was not with them. Lydia scanned the area, darting forward into the fade when she did not see her. She made her way forward and out of her peripherals she the Hawke’s form thrashing. Her eyes were shot open and glazed, unseeing and at the behest of the Nightmare.

“Hawke!” Lydia shouted. “Rhine! It’s the demon! You have to resist…have to…”

“Fenris is dead. Fenris is gone and it’s my fault…it’s my…”

“No!”

“Get away from me!”

Quicker than Hawke’s lightning magic Lydia used the fade step to dodge the slamming of Hawke’s staff, the shock waves of lightning hurling forward.

“Hawke! Fenris is alive! He’s alive!”

“You’re lying! He’s gone and it’s my fault! Everything I touched fell apart! I couldn’t save Kirkwall…couldn’t save Fenris…”

“That’s not true!” Lydia darted back to Hawke, shaking her hard. “This is your worst fear. The Nightmare is using it against you.”

“What do you know? You know nothing!”

“You’re not a failure, that’s what I know. And you are going to live through this. Hawke! _Rhine_!”

She cried out, the sound of her unholy shriek echoing off the disembodied walls as Lydia slapped her hard across the cheek. Hawke’s hand flew where Lydia struck, blinking, and shaking herself. “What...what…”

“The demon,” Lydia said, seeing Solas and the others out of her peripherals. “It prayed on your fears, turned it against you.”

“Fenris is alive?”

“He’s alive,” Lydia promised.

“But I saw him…”

“You didn’t. You saw what it wanted you to see.”

She rubbed her cheek. “Dammit that hurt.”

“Sorry,” Lydia apologized. “I didn’t know what else to do. But we have to move.”

Hawke grit her teeth, gripping onto her staff so hard her knuckles turned white, but nodded, and continued on.

“Thank the Maker for you,” Lydia heard Miranda mumble, along with Bull’s curses and Cassandra’s brief prayers to the Maker as her eyes met with Justinia’s form. Their guide.

_Close the rift Inquisitor, close it with all your strength. Then the demon will be sent to the farthest reaches of the fade._

“Move everyone!” Lydia commanded, traversing through the fade, following Justinia until the rift was in her vision, and it, the Nightmare and its aspect, awaiting them.

“Maker,” Cassandra exclaimed from behind her, the Aspect hissing and pulling, hooded and black, the monstrous spider behind it.

“Mother fucking spiders!” Bull shouted, as it snarled, the thing large and porous with two large fangs coated and dripping.

“Bull, Cassandra, charge at it. Everyone else take points around the field,” Lydia ordered as Justinia rose to meet the demon.

_If you would, please tell Leliana. “I am so sorry, I failed you too.”_

A cacophony of sounds erupted, their only warning until everything became a blinding white. Lydia couldn’t see, didn’t know what was happening until she became aware of the light abating and subside through her eyelids. When she opened her eyes the spider was gone, but the Aspect stared back at her, snarling, hissing. Whispering, taking the voice of Corypheus. _You will lose this girl, you are nothing…you are nothing…_

As she used her magic to propel herself forward with the fade step she saw Bull and Cassandra rush toward it as Miranda and Hawke fell back, a rain of lightning and arrows hurling toward the nightmare. Solas too darted, using his magic to send the thing downward and weakening it.

Nightmare echoed throughout. _I grow fat on your fear!_

“More fearlings!” Solas shouted. “We must deal with them!”

_Lydia, Lydia, Lydia…_

The imitated voices of Asher and her mother dissipated as Lydia cut them down, sending pieces from the raw fade with her magic from the rift and sending them backwards and crumpling. One by one they appeared as her companions pulled all their attention on the Aspect of the Nightmare, and one by one Lydia didn’t even so much as glance at them as they fell at her feet.

“You’re not them,” she told them all as they fell. “You aren’t them.”

 _You weren’t meant for this. You weren’t meant for this_ , the one that became her mother chanted.

 _This was never meant to be yours_. Asher taunted. _You killed me and you will kill so much more, my mage whore. My little kitten._

Cullen’s form stared at her, coming toward her as it jeered and mocked. _You’ll kill me too and you’ll kill everyone else._

She saw these things that dared take the faces of those she cared for. She tore them down, every last one, even as the loud cacophony of chanting voices circled her. But she was stronger. Much stronger than their chanting. Stronger than the fear demon, and stronger than anything that wanted to take her down.

_You were never meant for this._

“I may have not been meant for this,” Lydia said, “But it is mine.”

And she would not fall.

The power of the fade was everywhere. She felt it tingling her skin and inside her soul. It was hers. Her staff brimmed with the power. Feeling it, she slammed it forward, expelling the energy. The nightmare’s puppets all fell, dissipating, and becoming nothing, even as the Nightmare faltered. And with the power of the fade in her veins, she sent down her fire, hurling down meteors of flame around the Nightmare's aspect.

It screeched, cried out, and before it could taunt her one last time, it became no more.

It was wrong. She was meant for this.

Cassandra was pushing her before she could even celebrate the victory. “Now! Run to the rift!”

Her legs were lead but she ran, making sure all her companions were near her before jutting closer.

“No!”

Miranda’s cry made her stop and she was falling, tumbling, landing right onto the ground.

“It’s blocking the path!” Hawke exclaimed, helping Lydia to her feet.

The thing screeched, and Lydia cried out, covering her ears.

“Inquisitor!” Miranda shouted. “What will happen…how?”

Lydia grabbed a hold of Hawke and Miranda, the two of them on both sides of her, holding them for balance.

If it was blocking the path, how could they escape?

How where they going to escape?

 

* * *

 

There was one moment that he thought she was lost. Lost, along with Cassandra, Solas, and Bull. Only one moment.

That was before he remembered who she was.

So he told his men to keep going. Keep fighting. Not all ways lost. He did this because he knew. Yet when he saw her, appearing through the rift, he almost couldn't believe it.

She appeared through the rift on the brink of madness and tears, but she was breathing, in one piece, and alive. He wanted to run to her, hold her close and make sure it was really her, but Rylen’s hand was on his shoulder and he could only remain, only staring in awestruck wonder as he saw her mark connect with the rift. He had never seen it before, how it happened with the mark, as the last time he was near a rift he couldn’t see how the mark made contact with the rift, it erupting with a loud pop as the ground vibrated with energy. With the waving of her hand, there was another loud pop, and the demons turned to dust.

He had become so accustomed to the sounds of clanking swords that when it all ended, and the demons fell, the brief sound of silence that occurred was deafening, until the silence was replaced with the elated cheers of his soldiers. There was a burn behind his eyes, the almost overwhelming feeling of relief as he sighed in elation. It was over. He was alive, and she was alive, and this nightmare was over.

He rushed over to the group, nodding at Solas first, glad to see him alive before meeting with Cassandra and embracing her as Bull clapped him on the shoulder, quipping that his techniques about blocking the demons worked.

He heard his name from her lips.

He shifted, and there she was.

Her hair had fallen undone, she breathed heavily, and weariness laid ingrained in the depths of the blue of her eyes. But once more, she said his name. She said his name and he felt his heart beat again.

“It’s you,” she muttered.

“Lydia, I...you…”

He stopped, realizing that this was no time for words. Gentle, like the wings of a butterfly, her fingertips lightly brushed against his forehead as she smoothed back that errant lock of hair that had fallen from his face. He felt a warmth throughout, and that warmth increased tenfold as he became bolder, and held her face in his hand.

She closed her eyes, sighing as he brushed her jaw and cheek. “Cullen,” she whispered, “this is real, right? You’re real.”

“I’m real,” he promised. 

“This is you,” she muttered, and he wiped away the tear that fell from her cheek.

They were together, the battle was over, and she was real, and she was alive, and for one moment in the aftermath, standing in the ruin with his hand cupping her jaw, and her hand on his wrist, everything was right. He stood broken and weary next to a woman who was also broken and weary, but he swore, in this moment, the two of them were both beautifully alive.

The victorious cheers were everywhere. The relief and elation. Yet then, there became one voice, a solitary lone voice, begging Lydia to tell him. Begging Lydia.

"Where's Hawke?" Varric asked, begged, and everything became broken again.

Lydia stiffened, and Cullen removed his hand as feebly, she turned toward the crowd, Varric peering upward at her. Hoping. Praying.

“Varric…” Lydia began. “Hawke…Hawke…”

Cullen caught her before she could fall.


	23. Story's End

When Cullen was a boy he read stories of the glories of war. Knights who rode to victory, bringing glory to their land. The elation and happiness that came afterward. He treasured those stories, longed to be apart of one, some day.

That was before he knew.

Old bards and storytellers of the knights of old barely reached to the surface of the truth, and that surface only included the ephemeral feelings of relief at winning the day. Those stories, stories he used to voraciously read, or beg his mother to tell him again and again until her voice grew hoarse, barely reached the surface of the reality of winning. They failed to mention that the victors were never really the victors. They didn’t dare mention how those that remained were left to pick up the pieces, and left in devastated ruin, when the hope that more people made it out alive came crashing down.

Body after body they found. Not Hawke’s.

Afterward, in the courtyard of Griffon Wing Keep, Cassandra told Cullen what happened in the Fade. The Aspect of the Nightmare, and the demon itself, blocking the way. Both the Grey Warden and Hawke wanting to stay behind. Hawke insisting it should be her. Lydia eventually pulling Miranda away when Hawke would not relent, leading them all out.

She spoke of Lydia’s strength throughout all of this, and her perseverance. Cassandra spoke of how she still believed, despite everything.

“You think it truly was the Divine?” Cullen asked her, the two of them sitting together.

“I can’t say. Truly,” she responded. “I don’t think it matters. We made it out. But at…” She shut her eyes, shaking her head. “Maker. Hawke, and… Varric.”

Cullen too closed his eyes, the remorse flaring inside of him. Varric wasn’t with them when the pyre burned at Adamant, and Cullen said a prayer for all those they had lost. Varric wasn’t there when Cullen also said a prayer for Hawke, and as far as they could all tell, he wasn’t anywhere. Part of Cullen was glad for it. What would his words mean? Cullen could tell Varric how sorry he was, and even though it was true, and Cullen never wished anything to happen to her, what would the words even mean, coming from him?

That was a day after the siege at Adamant. Another day passed afterward, and Lydia remained unconscious.

After the battle, she was brought to the Keep where Sabine and the other healers tended her. Only once did Cullen try to venture into her room, haphazardly standing in the doorway and feeling too out of place. Lydia lay deep in sleep, Sabine hovering over her. Even from his vantage point Cullen could see she was flushed a rosy pink, thrashing slightly. Cullen lingered for a few minutes, hoping whatever that plagued her dreams would settle and abate. Yet even though it was only softly, her body continued to give light spasms. She made murmurings as well, all chants of the same plea. _S_ t _op. No. You aren’t them. Leave me. Hawke._

Sabine told him it was best to leave after that.

He asked one of the other healers for updates almost every hour that he could, and in those times he was told the same thing. She will live, Sabine continued to repeat, before moving on to another soldier that needed their wounds bound. Yet it didn’t matter if he was told a thousand times. He needed to see her, make sure of it. He wanted the fade to give her peace. He wanted to tell her that what happened to Hawke wasn’t her fault.

Thoughts became a swirl in his mind, even as he wrote the necessary letters under a canopy on the first floor of the Keep, the canopy the only thing that offered relief from the oppressive sun. He thought of Lydia, laying on a cot. Holding her for that one moment. Those that had fallen. Hawke.

He would have said something else the last time he saw her, had he known. Anything, to make her understand that she was right to hate him during all these years. He would have said he hated himself back then too.

He could barely sleep at night before, now whenever he closed his eyes his thoughts would not let him, and as Cullen tried to write the necessary letters he felt himself begin to nod off. Rylen told him he didn’t look well, and when Cullen finally got around to inspecting himself that morning, he knew Rylen was right. His stubble grew darker. His hair was unruly, though he kept it as neat as he could. His eyes were tired, deep purple shadows settling. Cassandra told him she would write the letters so he could rest, but they were his men under his command. He failed them. It had to be him to write to their families, and even if his apologies meant nothing to them, he had to do it. Every single one.

“Commander, may we speak?”

In a trance, he didn’t hear at first, not until the second time she called to him. Dropping the quill and looking upward, Miranda stood in front of him, still in her Grey Warden uniform. She too was weary, with purple shadows settling.

She avoided looking directly into his eyes as she spoke.

“Do you ever rest?” she asked him, not with malice, but rather with genuine curiosity and perhaps a bit of concern.

“I…yes,” he defended, rising. “I rest.”

“Hasn’t looked like it, that’s all.”

“With the Inquisitor…unavailable,” Cullen began, feeling a pang as he thought of her once again, unconscious and thrashing on a cot. “There’s no one else of leadership here among the Inquisition. I do what I must.”

“I haven’t heard anything. What’s her condition?”

“She’ll live,” Cullen said, repeating the same phrase he had been told a thousand times. “But is there something I can help you with?” 

Miranda nodded, all too gravely. “Many of the Grey Wardens here don’t know what to do. Myself included. They regret what happened. They want to do better. I would lead them, but we need to know what to happen to us.”

“I can’t pass judgment on the Wardens.” Cullen replied. “It’s for the Inquisitor to decide.”

“I know. But we can’t be here forever. I can’t be here forever. I…” she sighed, mournfully casting her gaze to her feet. “I just want to go home,” she admitted, all too helplessly.

Cullen knew and understood. He too wanted to go home. But where was his home anymore?

“Andraste Miranda, haven’t you earned that right?”

Cullen felt the fluttering of his quickening pulse. “Ly—Inquisitor,” he quickly corrected, turning and seeing that yes, it was truly _her_ voice, and she was awake and walking about. “Are you—?”

“Fine. I’ll be alright.”

Two days ago he rushed to her, touched her to make sure she was real. That was in the heat of the moment when he had lost all reason and everything else was gone, except the need to know she was real, and not a trick of either the fade or his addled mind. He longed to do the same now, yet as she stood before him now he was very aware of the working soldiers nearby, and Miranda Cousland, also near. He had to make himself content with standing and simply observing, and he prayed that his broken and addled mind didn’t simply create the vision of her.

The Lydia that he saw though was strong and robust, and had reassembled herself. But he knew, she was trying very hard to keep herself reassembled. She wore a simple linen shirt, white, with brown breeches and riding boots. She dressed for comfort against the heat, unlike Cullen who still stood on ceremony, even under the blazing sun and only kept his mantle off. Lydia stood tall and proud, as was her usual, but there was something in her form that brought about a slight slump of the shoulders. A gaze that wouldn’t linger on anyone or anything for too long.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” Cullen asked. “You were unconscious for two days.”

“I’m up. I promise you I’m fine.” She turned toward Miranda. “I need to speak to all of the Grey Wardens. According to Sabine and the other healers they don’t know what to do.”

“It’s true,” Miranda said. “We’ve all been helping since the battle. Burying the dead, killing stray demons that have wandered from the rifts. But they want to help the Inquisition, make this right. Only you have sanction to pass judgement on them Inquisitor.”

“They’ve been waiting long enough. They should be gathered, and I’ll speak to them.”

Cullen began to move. “I’ll—”

“No. You haven’t slept since the battle ended. I’ll go.”

Before Cullen could say anything else Miranda walked off to gather the Wardens, and it was after that that he became acutely aware of the woman next to him. She seemed to as well, as he felt her shift slightly. “Lydia,” he muttered, relatively alone with her and thus more comfortable to dispense with calling her by her title. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Are you? You must be burning up in that armor.”

“I’m fine,” he replied, though as soon as she mentioned it he did begin to feel the gathering of sweat, even without the mantle. He wore a linen shirt over his breastplate and that on top of the leather and on top of the steel was welcoming and snug in the brisk mountain air of Skyhold, but oppressive in the desert. His arms covered in steel vambraces also felt constricting, and his hands were clammy underneath the leather gloves. At the very least perhaps he could take those off of his hand and wrists.

He started too, but when he remembered, he ceased, too abruptly. But she couldn’t see them. He didn’t want her to see them.

She noticed something calculated in his movements, and raised her eyebrows. “It’s no trouble. I…I just want to know what happened after the battle,” he stammered, changing the subject for good measure. “I trust you made a full recovery?”

“Sabine and the other healers, they told me that I used too much mana in a short period of time,” she explained, her eyes traveling to his arms that Cullen awkwardly kept at his sides, as he tried and failed not to draw any suspicions towards. “That likely caused me to collapse,” she continued, moving on and allowing Cullen to feel relieved. “My body was recuperating after expelling so much magical energy. It happens to mages sometimes, when lots of mana has been used in a short period without any supplementation.”

By “supplementation,” she must have meant “lyrium.” Cullen made a fist so tight it began to ache.

The gesture, born out of frustration, didn’t pass unnoticed. “It would have happened even if I was still taking it,” she defended, crossing her arms in her own frustrated gesture. “It’s not like we had any supplies in the fade.”

“That’s not the point Lydia,” Cullen said. “What if something like this happens again? What if you collapse and no one is there to save you?”

“That won’t happen,” she insisted, with all the bravado that he knew Hawke had, once. He grimaced, thinking of how powerful she felt, how invincible she claimed she was.

“Cullen. Really. Everything is fine.”

“Lydia,” Cullen said, her name a weary sigh. “In all the years I knew Hawke, I knew she would have never imagined that this would be the way that—”

“Dammit I know Rhine is gone!” Lydia suddenly snapped, startling him. “I know. Don’t think I don’t know and understand that… _oh Maker_ …”

Inwardly he chided himself, as without warning, she stopped speaking, and averted her gaze from him. Deflated, defeated.

He didn’t mean this. He just wanted her to know that…he just wanted to reassure her, and... this was not how he wanted their reunion to be. He had to salvage this somehow. “All I meant was—”

“I know what you meant,” she interrupted. “Cullen…I don’t want to argue right now about this. Not now, or ever. Hawke is…and…”

But once again, she stopped herself, and said no more.

“It wasn’t your fault,” he tried to assure, feeble and weak.

“Maybe it was.”

“It wasn’t,” he exclaimed, wanting to touch her, but stopping halfway. Too aware of everything else, and too afraid. How strange it was, that two days ago, he felt as though something in their very souls had connected them. They were both broken and near falling, yet when they came together, they became whole again. All of that was gone now, and they may as well have been strangers. Either that, or only a mage, and templar.

Without any warning or preamble Cullen seethed, a sharp pinpoint feeling as though it was jamming into his skull. He felt Lydia place her hands on him, “Fine,” he brushed off. “Just…”

“Cullen.”

“It’s fine,” he said again, perhaps too harshly. He had been lucky so far with the pain. And he stood alive at the end of the day. At least there was that. Yet during the battle, he felt it within, how different it was without the lyrium. And perhaps no one would have known watching him. But he did. He knew it took more effort, more stamina than it used to, just to remain standing and keep going. Perhaps he was a fool for wanting a life free of the blue vial. What good was coming from it? For all he knew, his mind would be taken away anyway.

And there stood Lydia, purged of the lyrium. Because of him.

“Cullen, you don’t look well,” Lydia said.

“You’re alive,” Cullen said, brushing off the tension in the air that was too palpable for him to endure. “That’s what matters. But if you fell in the fade…”

“I didn’t.”

“It would have been because of me!”

Her face was a blank canvas. Cold, and unfeeling. Her eyes, usually a welcoming sea, turned into ice.

She stood strong. “My decisions aren’t because of you.”

She offered him help, offered him anything, and when he refused he didn’t call out to her as she left, despite how much he wanted to.

 

* * *

 

 

People often wondered what happened to those that had died. Yet in the aftermath of Adamant, Lydia knew one thing. It was more appropriate to wonder what happened to the living, and wonder how they could move on.

War never changed. It was always one ideal versus the other ideal. Some ideals were good, some harmful, but to the core, war was always about the preservation of a thought, or an idea. Yet the people that war affected could never be broken down into such a simple notion. War and battle, sometimes it changed people for the better. Made them want to fight harder, become stronger. Yet there were others, where the war and fighting touched them too deeply, and they would never be the same again.

At the aftermath of battle, Lydia stood under the stars with Miranda, unable to allow sleep to claim her. The fade took her everywhere when she remained unconscious. She saw Asher again, her mother, and Cullen. Maker, she wanted to be able to look at him, the real him again and not remember, but she wasn’t sure that was possible.

“The stars are beautiful, aren’t they?”

Lydia closed her eyes at Miranda’s words. Miranda. Her friend. The one she saved. Would she ever come to terms with the fact that in the end, she made the choice?

No, she wouldn’t.

“Yes,” Lydia mumbled, feeling the wind on her cheek as the two stood on the battlements. “They are.”

Months ago, Lydia stood on the battlements of the keep, speaking with Miranda Cousland about the past. Now they stood speaking of the stars, after everything had changed. She most of all.

“There’s an old Ferelden saying about the stars that my mother used to tell me,” Miranda said. “She said that some people, the greatest among us, were crafted with stars from the heavens, and they spent all their life trying to find their way back.”

Her mother had told her something similar, when she was still a child. “Beautiful sentiment,” Lydia mused.

“I think Hawke was trying to find her way back.”

The air stilled.

“I’m sorry,” Miranda quickly amended. “There’s nothing to be said, is there?”

Lydia thought of the thousand things she could have said. To Cullen, who quivered with remorse at knowing Hawke was gone, and shook when he wrote the necessary letters to the families of their fallen. The soldiers that wept for those that they had lost. Cassandra, shaking with mourning, and shaking with anger when she learned that Lydia had absolved the Wardens. And Varric…

She hadn’t seen Varric. What would she even begin to say, if she had? Lie and say there was no choice when she damn well knew there was? Tell him how sorry she was? It wouldn’t be enough. It would never be enough. So Lydia said nothing, because to not even try would be better than saying something, and failing.

“We knew, going in. You were the one that needed to be kept alive,” Miranda stated. “Hawke and I, we discussed it before.”

“How should that make me feel any better?”

“Lydia,” Miranda began, placing a hand on her back. “What happened to that woman in the fade, that broke the fear demon? All of us were trapped, except you.”

Lydia had wondered the same. “She must have been left there.”

“She wasn’t. And now you have...”

“I know,” Lydia resolved. “I have to be the one that remains standing.”

Just like Miranda once was the one that had to rise above, even when she did not want to. But she did, even though she hated the burdens of being a Grey Warden, unjustly thrown on her shoulders. Like how it was thrown on Lydia’s shoulders, being the Inquisitor. Yet Lydia never thought she hated her title. She only accepted. She accepted it before she knew what the cost could be.

She would collapse with the weight of everything on her shoulders. She was already collapsing, falling, and no one was there to pick her up. She would have to be the one to do it.

“You’re strong Lydia,” Miranda promised. “I want you to know that.”

She tried to gather herself. “Are you heading to Weisshaupt?” she asked, changing the subject.

Miranda nodded. “The Wardens must know what happened here. After that, I have to go back to what I was doing before.”

“You should return home.”

When Miranda didn’t respond, Lydia continued. “You said you wanted to, and you deserve to. After everything that has happened, you need to return.”

“I…Inquisitor, I want to. So much I want to. But I can’t. Not until I know I can end the calling for all of us.”

“Was that what the nightmare showed you, failing at your journey?”

“It showed me Alistair.” Miranda bit her lip, recoiling as she recalled the memory. “I couldn’t save him, in the nightmare. But I can. I know I can. I will. I—oh, Andraste…I don’t…” She took Lydia’s hand. “Lydia, please tell Leliana I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I wish I could return. To him, to everyone. But I can’t…I can’t…”

Lydia squeezed her hand, reaffirming, understanding. This entire time Lydia thought herself so different from Miranda, and even more different from Hawke. Yet this entire time, they were all pulled by the same thread. They were all bound by their duty, their desire to see their journeys resolve, in some way or another.

Yet Hawke had returned, right back to the stars, while Miranda and Lydia remained, chained and unfree of their duty.

Inquisitor, Hero, and Champion. Their stories intersected, in one moment in time. Now that Lydia's and Miranda's remaining paths were about to move on, melancholy engulfed Lydia, knowing perhaps this would be the last time she would ever see her friend again. The one she wanted to save. Maker, why did she have the power, to end one story, and allow another to continue?

She knew why. It was because her own story, the story laid with the Inquisition, was the story that depended on all other stories.

Miranda’s story here in the Inquisition was almost finished, but her story to end the calling was incomplete, and lay ready for her to finish it. But for now, before this one story ended and another continued, there was one final scene, under the stars.

“It’s been an honor Lydia,” Miranda said.

“The honor is mine,” Lydia said in turn, sharing their last moment, before their stories wound on differing paths.

 

* * *

 

Lydia heard his voice, as she descended the stairs back to her room. She heard him call the name that Hawke had given her.

“Fire?”

Tentatively, Lydia approached him. He smiled at her, slightly.

“Varric,” Lydia said, her hand under her quivering heart. “I—"

“Fire,” Varric said in turn, rising from the makeshift desk he had assembled in the courtyard, papers strewn about. The writer always was writing, after all. “I’m glad to see you’re up and about,” he continued. “We were worried about you.”

“I was worried about you,” Lydia admitted. “We didn’t know where you went.”

“It’s not your fault,” Varric said.

But it was. It was. Perhaps it would mean nothing if she apologized anyway, but that didn’t mean she shouldn’t try. Because it was the truth. “Varric, I—”

“Did I ever tell you about the time Hawke was on a Merchant’s Guild hit list? See, Hawke’s uncle got into an investment scheme, and…and…”

When he said no more she wrapped her arm around him. It wasn’t an embrace that reassured everything would be all right. Lydia knew the truth, that nothing would really be all right ever again. Softened, perhaps with time. But never truly where it was before. Yet at the very least, she could let Varric know, that she would be there to pick up the broken pieces. Perhaps she could not pick up her own pieces, but she would do everything she could for those she cared for. She would see herself fall before anyone else, ever again. She made that promise, right then and there.

“Fenris is in Kirkwall,” Varric said, Lydia’s arm still wrapped around him. “He doesn’t know yet. Neither does Carver, or Aveline, or anyone else. I was going to write a letter, but…it seems inadequate. Would you mind if I go back to Kirkwall, only for a little while?”

“Of course not,” Lydia said softly. “Take all the time you need.”

“Saw too much in too little time,” Varric said. “But she was…”

“A star,” Lydia offered. “Made of star stuff.”

He smiled at that.

This wasn’t the end of a story, Lydia thought as she now stood with Varric. It was the beginning of another chapter. One that would be more difficult, perhaps because she didn’t know exactly where the Inquisition was going from here. Where she was going from here. Yet even so, she would rise, and meet the new chapter. What other choice did she have, but to persevere? No matter how broken she was, she would always have to persevere.

She didn’t know Cullen was also out, not until began to slip back into her quarters. Still in his full armor, sans mantle, he didn’t notice her as he sat, eyes turned toward the stars.

He held her, after the battle. One moment of beauty, in all of this. How she wanted more. How she knew she couldn’t.

With one last look, she slipped into her quarters, and once more, dreamed of Asher, her mother and Hawke, and Cullen, the man she couldn’t save.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hehehe. Fallout callout. Did you catch it?


	24. Constellations

In the two days that followed Varric and Miranda’s departure, Lydia went about the motions as a hollow shell would. Sending pockets of Wardens to deal with the darkspawn. Sending more to Skyhold to await orders. Incessantly they all asked her if she was all right. Every time, she answered with the same lie.

That second night she tried to join in the games of Wicked Grace that Bull and Blackwall organized at the first floor of the keep, a moment of lighthearted bonding after everything. Blackwall tried to lift her spirits with a funny little anecdote about things he and Sera discussed back at Skyhold, and Bull regaled stories of the Chargers and demonic trees called Sylvans in an attempt to make her crack a grin. But Lydia’s smiles were only half-hearted as they sat by the fire. She was still nothing more than a hollow shell. They all knew it. Still they tried.

“Come on Boss,” Bull said. “Play a game.”

She couldn’t pretend everything was all right. Better to leave and force herself to pretend. Excusing herself, she began to wander the keep, knowing too well that if she tried to sleep, it would allude her.

In her wanderings she found Solas, standing by himself away from all the rest on the battlements. He greeted her with a tightlipped “Inquisitor,” that reminded Lydia he wasn’t happy regarding her decisions about the Wardens, right along with Cassandra. He wasn’t unabashed about his scoffing afterward, either.

“Still upset?” Lydia asked.

“You are the Inquisitor. Whatever your judgments, we are the ones that follow,” he answered coolly.

“You don’t have to follow me anymore. Not really,” she pointed out. “Didn't have to teach me the way of the rifts. Why have you remained?”

“At first, to see this through.”

“And now?”

“You are different from other humans,” he said, without any hesitation. “There is a thoughtfulness to you.”

Lydia never liked being othered by people. Being a mage made her naturally othered, and in the Circle her status as a noble set her apart from the rest. When she fell out of the fade at Haven, even further was she othered. Even if Solas had meant his statement to be a compliment, Lydia didn’t take to it. “Many humans are thoughtful,” she said.

“You knew it was the demon in the fade that was preying on us.”

“You did too. Perhaps because we are mages?”

“Hawke didn’t know.”

“Never the less,” she said, biting her lip. “That doesn’t make me better than anyone else. Neither does me being the Inquisitor.”

She walked back down to the first level, not expecting to meet Cassandra along the way.

“Are you all right?” Cassandra inquired. “You seem…”

“Cassandra please stop asking me if I’m all right.” She grit her teeth. Everyone asked her that question. Did she not look fine? She certainly didn’t feel fine. She hadn’t felt fine since she was spit out of the fade and landed almost on her ass back to Adamant.

“We can talk, if you want. I know I was too hard on you. I’m sorry Lydia, but—”

She was sorry. Lydia knew. That didn’t mean she wanted or needed to hear it. That, or anything. Not now. Not ever.

Cassandra called to her as she stormed out of the keep. Lydia called back, told her to just leave her be. She didn’t want to be there, where everything was too much. Since she was marked by Corypheus and his orb, one by one, troubles and expectations had been thrown onto her shoulders, and they all expected her to carry them. She expected it for herself, even. She even accepted it, because it was the only way to be free.

She thought she could do this, carry all of the burdens. But as one by one, the expectations grew, she had started to collapse, and there was no escape, no way to breathe. So she did what she never could do in the Circle when she wanted to escape. She ran.

Pepper carried her to the oasis, the small place of paradise hidden between the crevice of two rocky structures. When she dismounted she let Pepper roam, knowing he wouldn’t stray far. She peeled off her boots, gloves, shirt and light jacket, and left only in her breaches and breast band, came into the water. As she fell waist deep into the cool water, her mark still glowed.

She pondered it as it emitted the strange green light. Never did she believe the mark was from Andraste or the Maker. But she heard whispers among the garden as she worked on her roses, heard them in the tavern and heard them whisper on the way to the Approach as battle loomed ahead. Some were frightened, yes, but many more revered. A mage, of all things. But why? Because she was the one that was at the door to the conclave? Because she had survived the avalanche, with only the slimmest amount of luck, and Cullen had found her with just the same amount? They believed in her, even when she didn’t, and that somehow allowed her to make decisions for them. But it was luck, of all things. It was what allowed her to stand in the fade and allow Hawke to be the one that died.

It didn’t matter what anyone said. It was her fault. She chose to leave when she could have found a way. She could have found a way for Hawke to live. How she said she couldn’t wait to fall back in the arms of Fenris, her lover. How Lydia failed her.

Lydia told herself a lie when Nightmare confronted her, that she could save everyone. But she was the biggest lie of them all. So many of her men died in her wake. Her men, pledging themselves to her. So many others died needlessly because she chose to use fire instead of talking with them, reasoning with them, and maybe, just maybe, they didn’t have to die.

Why didn’t she leave with Asher outside the conclave when she had the chance? Someone else would have heard Justinia. Someone else would have been marked, and they would have become the Inquisitor. Someone, anyone, could have saved more people than she did.

The water was comforting, cool. Strange that the one made of fire would love the water as much as she did. She allowed herself to sink lower, down into the underwater world for a few moments. It was peaceful there, but not quiet. Her thoughts still raced.

She came up for air, sinking deeper, and deeper. Back into the underwater world. It wasn't quiet, but…

“Stop!”

Taken by surprise, she was grabbed. “Get off me!” She shrieked, thrashing.

Inadvertently she sent them both submerged, still thrashing. Kicking her feet off the ground she broke them to the surface, Cullen’s arms still around her middle.

“Cullen!” Lydia shouted. Why was he here? She turned around to face him in the water. “What in Andraste’s name are you doing?”

He wouldn’t move. Lydia tugged on his arm before eventually leading him to the shallow bank as she tried to steady him. As she plopped them both down on the bank he was breathing heavily, eyes unseeing as he looked straight ahead. He ran into the water with everything on. White tunic, breeches and even boots. Thank the Maker he wasn’t wearing his armor.

“Cullen?” she asked, the two of them soaked. “Are you…?”

“Fine,” he said sharply.

She realized the irony of her asking that question, seeing as how it was the question she was starting to despise with a passion. “You should take your shirt off,” she suggested, wringing out her hair. “It’s soaked. I know it’s not ideal but you can use my coat to dry at least.”

“No…no,” he stammered. “This is all right.”

It wasn’t, not by a long shot. Cullen kept his gaze averted from her, making a large point to show he wasn’t looking, and when she realized why, she quickly stood and went back to the heap where she left her discarded clothes. Using her jacket she dried herself off to the best of her ability before covering herself.

“I was fine Cullen,” Lydia called when she was decent, Cullen still by the edge of the water. “Why did you go after me?”

No answer.

“Cullen?”

When there was still no response she padded over. “Cullen?” Tentatively she placed her hand on his shoulder. “Are you all right?”

He held his face in his hands. “I couldn’t breathe.”

“Is something wrong? You seem spooked. You don’t like being underwater?”

“No,” he stated. “Andraste, it was almost like—”

But he stopped and said no more. Lydia crouched to his level. “You don’t—”

“When I was a boy my brother fell in the water, and I tried to go after him,” Cullen stammered. “My father pulled us out. It…reminded me of that I suppose.”

She wasn’t sure that was all it reminded him of. “Are you sure—”

“What were you thinking?” he demanded out of nowhere, making Lydia recoil as he placed his hands on her shoulders. “Why did you get into the water? Why did you…Lydia, why did you want to do that?”

“I just wanted a swim, that’s all!” she exclaimed, brushing him off and rising from the ground. “What did you think I was doing?”

His gaze averted downward. She understood. 

Awkwardly she stood, and Cullen too rose and removed himself away from her, hands tearing through his hair in frustration. He apologized once, twice, three times. “Cassandra said you had left, you looked upset, and didn’t want to talk. You’ve been aloof these days and Cassandra was concerned. I ride faster, I said I would go after you, and I suppose I…oh Maker.” He sighed, exasperated. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I thought...”

“I promise you it wasn’t it,” she said, as soothingly as she could.

“I shouldn’t have come.”

“No, no. I…thank you. I wanted to be alone, but thank you. For thinking of me, I mean.” Cassandra too, she supposed. She would have to tell her later. She pointed to his soaked boots. “I’m sorry about those.”

“It’s fine.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Surprised you didn’t hear me.”

“Deep in thought I suppose.”

The Approach was silent, save for the sounds of the two of them, awkwardly standing side by side as they began to attempt to wring out as much water as possible from their drenched clothes and hair. Why he didn’t just take off his shirt she didn’t know. It’s not as though she would gape. She wasn’t the gaping sort.

He glanced at her. “Is something the matter?”

“No,” she insisted, feeling her cheeks burn, for some reason. “Nothing is wrong. It’s only…I can see why Varric calls you Curly now.”

Now that his hair was drying, his usual swept back waves were unruly and filled with coils. Self-consciously Cullen ran a hand through his hair.

Well, there she was, gaping. She turned away, telling him it was nice for good measure, attempting to save face.

“Thank you.”

More uncomfortable seconds passed.

“We should go,” Cullen suggested, continuing to thread his fingers through his hair and motioning over to where the horses were, his wheat colored mare and Lydia’s Pepper, idly standing by each other a few feet away.

“Do we really want to answer any questions while we’re still soaked?”

“Aren’t we going to answer questions anyway?”

“I don’t want to go back yet,” she admitted, switching to the truth.

He took a deep breath, understanding. “I’m sorry again. Truly. I’ll return. I’ll tell Cassandra we should leave you alone. I—”

“No.”

His brows furrowed, puzzled.

“Stay with me,” she found herself saying, not knowing why, but thinking why not, as she sat down by the bank, and motioning down for him to sit next to her.

Tentatively he walked down, even more tentatively sitting down next to her. Lydia stretched herself out, laying onto the grass and fanning out her wild and unruly hair. The heavens above were beautiful.

“I’m sorry I’ve been irate,” she said, looking at the stars. "I'm sorry I've just been going through the motions.

“There’s nothing to apologize for.”

“I don’t know…I…” she took a deep breath. “I don’t know.”

Wanting to change the subject, she asked him if he enjoyed looking at the stars as much as she did.

“I do,” he admitted with a slight grin.

“Did you ever stargaze when you were little?” she asked. “We used to stargaze sometimes. My mother and me. I used to feel so small compared to them. Now, I suppose it reminds me how big the world is, and how insignificant I am, in the grand scheme of things. It sounds strange, but it’s comforting.”

She wasn’t sure how true that statement was, but Cullen agreed, and she saw his grin broaden as he laid down next to her. Perhaps he was recalling a memory from simpler times. A time before he became a templar.

“We stargazed as well. My family and I, I mean,” Cullen said. “My father used to tell us that some people were made of the stars.”

Lydia chuckled. “Miranda said the same thing before she left. And my mother used to say something similar. It must be a Ferelden thing.”

“What did your mother say?”

She placed her hands behind her head. “She said that some people carry stars in their pockets. Some always carry them, others keep them concealed, while others save their stars for the moments that matter the most, and they are the ones that always have the most beautiful stars. Miranda though, she said that some people are crafted from star stuff, and those people spend their whole life trying to make their way back.”

“It’s like what my father told us,” Cullen said. “He used to say that the Maker plucked stars from the sky, and placed them in his children. He used to tell us that he and my mother were part of the same constellation.”

“It’s a lovely sentiment,” Lydia murmured.

“There’s a similar sentiment in a story I used to love.”

“Cliodna’s story?”

She turned toward his nodding profile. “Do you remember?” she asked.

He nodded again.

“Can you tell me?”

The question was left unanswered, so once more she asked.

“It’s been so long,” he said eventually, brushing through his hair again. “I don’t…no one has ever asked me for this before. Not since…”

The before. Leaning closer toward him, Lydia smoothed away that errant coil that fell on his forehead.

“Help me forget, at least for a little?”

His eyes were kind as they looked into hers. “Look towards the sky,” he said.

“Wha—?”

“Sometimes my mother would begin a story by telling us to look toward the sky.”

Doing as he asked, Lydia cried in delight when at that very moment, a shooting star crossed the heavens. Further it illuminated the milky sky, pearly against the backdrop of midnight.

“Fitting” Cullen said dreamily, clearing his throat, and beginning. He began the story the same way many stories began, with the turning of the age-old phrase. The phrase of, “before our father’s father came from the mountain…”

Transported to another time, another place, Lydia listened. Before their father’s father came from the mountain, the priestess Cliodna lived. She was known as a dreamer and searcher, and every morning she would ride through the mountains on her mare, and every night she would tell stories around the campfire about her adventures. One day however, she grew tired of it all. The hold and the mountain became claustrophobic and stifling, and she longed for more. When she sought guidance from the Lady of the Skies, she came to Cliodna in a dream. “You live, but you do not see,” the Lady of the Skies said. “You must see.” So Cliodna took this as seeking glory and victory, becoming the strongest and bravest of her hold. When there were no more battles to be won or no more other champions to best, Cliodna’s bravado grew, as she knew that everyone else in the hold admired and looked up to her. Thinking there was nothing else for her, once again Cliodna sought the Lady. Having gained the awe and respect of everyone else in her hold, Cliodna was dumbstruck as to why the Lady still insisted that she hadn’t yet truly seen. So she gave Cliodna and her mare immortality, that would last only until she saw, and understood.

“Cliodna became frustrated,” Cullen continued, Lydia still gazing at the sky, seeing the story play out in the constellation of stars. “Years passed, and eventually Cliodna realized that perhaps by “seeing,” the lady meant leaving her hold and the mountain. So she left, for the lowlands. It was there that she met Conchobhar.”

“Conchobhar?” Lydia repeated. “That’s a mouthful. Anyway, I’m sorry. Go on. Please.”

“Conchobhar,” Cullen continued, trying to muffle his giggles. “was a lowlander prince, and he showed Cliodna the plains, and the sea. He showed Cliodna his people, told her how he wanted to help and protect them above all, and Cliodna was bemused as to why he didn’t seek their admiration or glory.”

Cliodna found Conchobhar strange, yet captivating, Cullen regaled. Yet still, Cliodna sought affirmation from the Lady of the Skies. But when once again the Lady said that Cliodna had yet to see, she grew angry and frustrated. She had left her hold, saw the plains and met others. What more was there to do? Still, the Lady remained unmoved. Cliodna had yet to see. Overwrought, she left Conchobhar and returned to her hold. But something happened when she returned. She realized, that she missed Conchobhar. She wanted, needed, to see him again.

“So Cliodna tried to go back,” Cullen continued. “Back to the lowlands to find Conchobhar. Yet his words about wanting to help others stayed with her. So when she met a family whose daughter was missing, she helped find them, and such a feeling she had, upon seeing their reunion. More people needed help, and not wanting to turn anyone down, she helped them all. Tending the land, bringing food and medicine, anything they needed. Helping. Protecting. At one point she became separated from her mare in the marshes, and cried when she found him again, unharmed.”

“What about Conchobhar?”

“She went back to the plains eventually,” Cullen said. “She met someone that looked like Conchobhar and said his name was Conchobhar, but he did not recognize her face. He only recognized her name, from the stories his father used to tell him, before he had passed on.”

Lydia was mesmerized, Cullen’s words and voice taking her to a place far from anywhere she had been in her life, a place not even the fade could take her to. Yet when Lydia made the realization, that too much time had passed and Conchobhar had died before she could return to him, she became sad, angry, and confused, a pang hitting her so hard she might as well have been Cliodna.

Well, as Cullen had said, she did remind him of Cliodna.

“There’s more,” Cullen assured, noticing Lydia, who had become crestfallen at the turn the story had gone. “Cliodna shouted at the Lady of the Skies, demanding why she place her on this path if it only led to heartbreak. She wept and wept, until, she heard the whispering in her ear. Look around.”

“What happened when Cliodna looked around?”

“She saw him everywhere.”

Conchobhar and his words about helping others carried with her as she searched. He was always with her, and she didn’t even know. She never lost him. Not truly. She heard him in the plains, she felt him as she submerged into the river. She saw him in the mountains. And she saw him in the starry sky, where she swore, there was a bright new star. She looked around, and for the first time, she saw how beautiful life was, when you stopped seeking admiration and glory, and stopped to help and protect others. When you truly loved.

“She spent her remaining years not seeking glory, but helping others,” Cullen said. “For that was where the beauty of life truly was. And when years later, Cliodna passed on, she became a bright star right next to Conchobhar, belonging in the same constellation.”

Cullen was closer to her than Lydia initially realized. She felt a frisson as he inched even closer, his shoulder resting against hers.

“See?” Cullen asked, pointing to the two brightest stars in the sky. “Conchobhar, and Cliodna.”

“It’s beautiful,” Lydia muttered, seeing. Truly seeing.

“I think about them when I look at the sky,” Cullen said. “I also think about my father used to say, about people belonging in the same constellation.”

She wondered if he also believed in what Miranda believed, that some people spent their life trying to go back to the stars.  
When he asked, he shook his head. “I like what your mother said more,” he admitted. “About people having stars in their pockets.”

“I don’t know, I suppose it’s comforting to think that those we have lost are now back in the stars. In the same constellation, maybe.”

“It is.”

“Everything is my fault.”

She didn’t know she was crying, not until she felt the single, lone tear escape from her eye.

“Lydia…”

“It is…" Her voice cracked. " _It_   _is_ …”

The tears that fell from her eyes were at first like a soft rain. There, but subtle. Then they became a heavy rain, a storm. Lydia wept for Hawke, the woman who had lost everything, yet remained strong. She wept for Fenris, the man who had lost the love of his life. She wept for Varric, who lost his best friend. She wept for their soldiers at Adamant who were more than willing to die for their cause. Those she couldn’t protect. She wept for Divine Justinia, who had saved her. She wept for Miranda, still on her journey. She wept for Willa, her best friend, who lost the love of her life, and she prayed that someday she would be in the same constellation as he. And Lydia wept for Asher. She didn’t love him. She didn’t ever love him. But for a moment in her life he was the only good thing, and that didn’t stop the feelings from being real. She wept for Cullen, who tried so hard to break the chains, yet was still with her now.

She didn’t want Cullen to see this. Standing up she walked away, covering her face in her hands. It should have occurred to her that this was futile, her shoulders were shaking as the tears poured, her hands unable to wipe the tears away before more came.

“Lydia,”

“I’m sorry…” she said, feeling him behind her. “I can’t…”

She felt his hand on her back. He asked for nothing as he stood there with her, and only gave. As she fell into his arms, she knew. He would always only want to give.

She was a tall woman, but he was taller, and he nestled his chin underneath her head, stroking her damp hair. The sinews of his arms became her barrier, her sanctuary. He was warm and protecting, solid earth that kept her grounded. And all was so wonderfully quiet. Right and real.

“It’s not your fault,” he began to chant.

“It…”

“Shhhh."

There would be time for words another day. At that moment, Cullen only held her as she wept. He would hold her until she believed, and if that be forever, she knew he would hold her, forever. 

The stars gleamed, turning the night into the early dawn, yet still Lydia remained in Cullen’s arms, in this constellation that they had shaped, and the one she belonged.


	25. Fire and Water

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so from here on out, I'm deviating from the game's timeline of events and taking a few liberties with the order of quests and whatnot. Nothing major, but just wanted to mention it. Obviously I already did take some creative liberties with the insertion of Miranda other than Stroud, but ya know. 
> 
> Also, we're 100,000 words in and I don't even think I'm halfway through. Sheesh. what was my life before this story?

He was an impressive boy. Small and scrawny, but their was a strength in him. Most likely he was the runt of the litter, though Cullen grew up knowing the runts often became the fiercest, and most loyal. That’s what the man who bred mabari in Honnleath said anyway. They didn’t breed mabari in Orlais though, and when Cullen found the little brown pup, he felt as though a star had just fallen in the sky. The pup easily fit into his hand, but he wriggled his body as his tail wagged, happy to be held and picked up. He licked Cullen’s palms, making him laugh.

On the way to the Winter Palace, the party had stopped for the night. The journey wasn’t taking as long as the journey to Adamant took, as Cullen had sent most of his forces back to Skyhold. Upon having discovered that the village of La Marne had a tavern that was both lively and stocked with mead though, Lydia thought a night of rest wouldn’t be unwelcome. After another round of Wicked Grace went poorly, Cullen had strayed away from the tavern, craving fresh air from the heat of the closed in quarters, at least temporally. When he walked outside, he felt the gentle clawing at his ankles, and he realized that he had just made a new friend. He heard that Orlesian women sometimes carried little mabari pups with them, only for the dogs to be abandoned when they grew too large. Perhaps the dog that was now licking his face had been a part of a larger litter brought in from Ferelden, only to be left behind because of his size.

“Such a good boy,” he mumbled, rubbing the dog’s back. “You’ve endured a lot, haven’t you?”

“You found a dog?”

Cullen froze when he heard Lydia’s voice, though he managed to gather himself and extend the pup to her open arms. His tail still wagging, Lydia giggled as she scratched behind his ears. “Of course the dog would find you first. He can sense the Ferelden,” she teased, handing him back.

Cullen grinned at that, bringing the pup to his eye level. “I’m sorry I can’t take you with me.”

“Imagine what they would say if the Commander of the Inquisition brought a dog to the peace talks.”

“It wouldn’t end well.”

“No, but it would be bloody funny.”

It would have been, though not the wisest choice. It was a shame though that they had to go directly to Halamshiral. Before the Inquisition left Adamant, Josephine and Leliana sent a letter. An invitation from the Duke Gaspard to attend the peace talks at Halamshiral was finally secured, and the Inquisition could finally determine who would be responsible for Celene’s demise in the dark future Lydia witnessed in Redcliffe. Unfortunately, the grand ball hosted by his sister, Florianne, was only weeks away. They had no choice but to immediately head from the Approach to the Winter Palace, rather than taking time to recoup at Skyhold. In the letter Josephine spoke of preparing Lydia for the scrutiny of the court, as well as the waltz lessons that she scheduled Lydia to take with a certain Master Yves of the Val Royeux school of dance. To say Cullen found it only a little absurd was an understatement. There was a plot to kill the empress and Josephine was concerning herself with Lydia’s ability to waltz. When Lydia read the letter however, she only scoffed and said that the Orlesians stole the art of dance from Nevarra. It was one thing she and Cassandra agreed on before they left, the two women laughing about learning the Nevarran Landler at a young age.

Lydia seemed more at ease with Cassandra than she had been, and everyone else for that matter. She smiled more, made gibes as they traveled, and all the while, Cullen thought of what it was like to have her in his arms, under the stars by the oasis. He would never forget, what it was like to hold her.

“Didn’t you once say you wanted a mabari?” Lydia asked him, breaking him from his thoughts.

“I still would,” he admitted. “Unfortunately, most of my time is devoted to the Inquisition currently, and I don’t think he would get the attention he needs.”

“How do you know he’s a boy?”

Turning the pup around for the distinguishing feature, he blinked when he realized he wasn’t a he at all.

“You’re still an impressive pup,” Cullen said. “If only we could give you a home.”

“I have a thought.”

Leading him away from the tavern, Cullen, holding the dog, followed Lydia to one of the nearby homes. He had stored his armor in one of the rooms in the tavern and was wearing a brown tunic with dark colored breeches, and without his usual attire he felt strangely light as he followed Lydia through the town. It reminded him of Honnleath in terms of size and design, and the only thing that prevented him for thinking he was in Honnleath was the lack of any golem statue at the town’s center, as well as the fact that La Marne was situated right alongside lake Celestine. Lydia led him to one of the homes in the northeast side, one painted white with a vegetable and herb garden, and rose bushes along the sides. Cullen admired the simple but sturdy design.

"Lydia!”

A little girl with long red hair and a constellation of freckles spattered across her face ran barefoot over. Earlier, Cullen saw Lydia bond with the girl over the rosebushes, the little girl eventually sticking a fallen rose into Lydia’s hair, which she still wore. In return, the little girl wore a crown of daisies that Lydia adorned to her hair, gently placing it on her head as if it was a crown made from the most precious diamonds, which she too still wore.

“Amelie,” Lydia said, kneeling to her level. “I have something for you.”

“What?” Amelie asked, growing excited. 

“Well, do you remember how you said you wanted a friend?”

Realizing it was his cue, Cullen too knelt. When Amelie saw the little dog in his hands, she beamed, green eyes wide. “Is that…?”

“Will you take good care of her?” Cullen asked. "She's small now, but someday she'll be rather large."

That didn't deter Amelie. She nodded with unabashed enthusiasm and joy before Cullen handed her the pup. She took to Amelie immediately, tail wagging and licking her face. 

“She needs a home,” Lydia said. “And a friend.”

The pup still wiggling in her arms, Amelie threw her arms around Lydia, before throwing her arms around Cullen as well, taking him by surprise. He found Lydia’s gaze as the girl continued to embrace him, but Lydia only gave him a broad grin, egging him to go on.

“Thank you, thank you!” Amelie exclaimed once more, Cullen awkwardly patting her, before wrapping his arms around her tiny frame.

After saying goodbye and kissing both Lydia and Cullen on the cheek, which once again left Cullen surprised, Amelie ran to her house with the dog, where her equally redhaired mother was waiting. “Do you think her mother is going to mind the dog?” Cullen whispered to Lydia, but before she could reply, his question was answered when Amelie’s mother took the pup from Amelie, grinning as the dog licked her.

“The sky is ripped apart, and two Orlesian women are happy to have a mabari pup. How strange times are.”

Cullen snorted as Amelie and her mother waved at them. They offered dinner, something, anything, but Lydia told them they needed nothing in return. Still smiling and waving, they returned to the house, and Lydia mumbled to him that the pup now had a good home. Cullen agreed.

The evening was turning into night. Rising, Cullen suggested they should probably head back to the tavern, lest someone come looking for them.

“There’s something I wanted to tell you, actually,” Lydia admitted. “Do you think we can talk?”

Agreeing, she led him back to the tavern, but rather than taking him back inside, she led him to the outside courtyard that overlooked lake Celestine. Paper lanterns on strings crisscrossed the wooden panels that still let the evening light in and illuminated Lydia. She was utterly relaxed, and free of cares. She wore a loose fitting white shirt with a red skirt that bustled, exposing her shoulders and legs, the sun from the Approach leaving her with a glow. After seeing her so distraught, it was good to see her happy.

“What’s on your mind?” he asked, reframing from tucking the errant waves that had fallen from her bun behind her ear.

“I just wanted to thank you for the other night,” she said. “The last time someone held me when I cried, I must have been a little girl.”

“You don’t have to thank me."

“No. I do. I’m the Inquisitor. Fire, like Varric and Hawke called me. But I suppose after what happened, I forgot what my mother used to say, about people having the right to be vulnerable. But I suppose in the aftermath, I thought if people saw how I wavered, they wouldn’t believe I was like fire anymore, or even if I’m worthy to even be the Inquisitor.”

“Why would you think that?” he asked.

“Vivienne says I can’t ever let my status waver, or let anyone see everything else.”

“I don’t really believe that."

She rested her gloved, marked hand on her cheek as they overlooked the water by the edge. He never thought it would be possible, to be jealous of a glove, but if he were in that glove’s position he would have been able to touch that cheek.

He was free of his armor, free of his usual leather gauntlets. And when he thought of his bare palms against her, he wondered if it would feel too rough against her cheek.

He was slow, letting her know it was all right if she did not want his touch. But she did not move away. She drew herself closer. He touched her, rough hand against her soft cheek.

Closing her eyes, she sighed contently, her lips parting. What would she say if he tried to kiss her?

“Sometimes I feel like I’m a completely different person than I was before I came to the Conclave,” she admitted, Cullen’s reverie dissipating. “Other times I don’t even know who I am. Inquisitor, fire, slayer of dragons, girl with the flowers in her hair,” she gestured to the rose in her pinned up waves. “But you know something?” she asked. “You see me as a woman before the Inquisitor. Not even a woman. You see me and you see Lydia.”

“I know you’re a woman,” he murmured, rubbing his neck.

She laughed. “I mean I think you see every part of me. The good, the bad, the middle. Many people focus on one thing, and that’s all they see. And I feel like it’s always been that way.”

Inwardly he recoiled. How many looked at her before she was the Inquisitor and only saw a mage? Roderick, for one, before she made him believe. So many others whispered the same thing, more people than he could silence back then at Haven.

Cullen himself too. Once he would have looked at her and seen nothing but a mage.

He didn’t. Not anymore. He looked at her and he didn’t see a mage. She was one, yes, but Maker she was so much more.

Everything.

He couldn’t tell her that. Just as he couldn’t tell her how much being near, holding her and having her in his arms meant to him.

“Even Asher was that way,” she said. “Not you.”

Asher. There it was again, that name from her past that she only mentioned cryptically in passing. He never wanted to ask, knowing full well that some things in her past had the right to solely belong to her. But she had brought him up, and…

He asked her who Asher was.

“A man I used to know,” she said, in a trance. “He died at the conclave.”

“I’m so sorry,” he said softly.

She didn’t reply, looking straight ahead. “Was he from the Circle as well?” Cullen asked. “Did you travel with him to the conclave?”

She shook her head. “I came to the conclave partially because I hoped he would be there. I wanted to see him again, because he meant something to me once. I thought he could mean more, if…” she rubbed her forehead. “I don’t regret going into the conclave. But I wish he didn’t have to die.”

The revelation hit him. “You loved him.”

“I _thought_ I did,” she said, not missing a beat. “It was forbidden, so I guess at first I thought all forbidden affairs were right and real. Twisted logic, I know, but blame the books I read.”

“It’s discouraged, but in most Circles it’s not unknown or completely forbidden for mages to…have relations,” Cullen eventually offered, trying to search for the right words.

“I know,” she stated. “But Asher wasn’t another mage. He was a templar.”

Cullen only stared with what he assumed was a dumb, unblinking expression on his face as Lydia relayed to him the full events that transpired at Ostwick, years before the conclave. She relayed how this Asher was brought to the Circle, and how one night, in the library…he…

Maker.

“He…he forced himself on you?” Cullen asked, incredulous. “You were in the library and he—”

“Well, he knew I was staring at him.”

“That doesn’t matter Lydia! He should never have done that! It's...it's... _despicable_.”

He didn’t know if that ever crossed her mind before, or if she ever knew, but before she went on with the events, her hand instinctively came to her face, touching her lips, as if to remember the feel of it again. And he thought, perhaps, she was coming to the revelation. 

"I'm sorry that happened to you," he said. "It shouldn't have."

"It's...oh it doesn't matter," she said, before going on. She continued with the story, speaking of how the First Enchanter and Knight Commander found out and Asher was sent away, while Lydia had to remain. Maker’s breath had Lydia been anywhere else something would have happened to her, she would have been punished…

He tried not to think of that, or what Meredith would have done, had Lydia been in Kirkwall. He didn’t want the image in his mind…one of Lydia with the mark upon her forehead. Eyes cold, unseeing. But it came into view, and—

No. No. _No._

Her voice, sweeter than any note of music, brought him back. It reminded him that image wasn’t real. She, wonderfully alive, was real, even though she didn’t speak of happier times. She told him what they called her at the Circle when they all found out. An instigator, a whore, little girl who was in over her head and didn’t know what she was getting into. And in all of this, Cullen realized, nothing of true consequence happened to the one that started it all. Asher, the one that had warped her in.

Cullen felt one thing, and one thing only for Asher.

He despised him.

“I…I can’t believe they called you that,” Cullen said as Lydia finished the story, more rage boiling inside of him.

“I know. It was worse when they called me ‘Chlamydia’, and—"

“ _Lydia_.”

She sighed. “Look, I know some of it was my fault,” she said. “But it hurt when—”

“No.”

She was taken aback. “What? What are you…?”

“None of that was your fault. He coerced you.”

“I did want him,” she tried to explain. “I saw him stare at me and I wanted a relationship. I wanted to carry it on even when I knew I shouldn’t have.”

“Lydia, he was the one in a position of power. You were his charge and he was the one that instigated this. Not you.”

“I don’t…”

“He deserves blame. He carried on this affair when he knew he shouldn’t have.”

“I knew too.”

“If he truly cared for you like he said he did, he would have stopped it. Maker Lydia, had you been found out, and had you been anywhere else…”

“I know.”

Once again, he brushed that image aside.

Lydia turned away from him, her hands on the railing as she overlooked the water. It was getting dark, and the moon was mirrored on the water’s surface. “I still miss him, sometimes,” she revealed. “But I know now I didn’t love him. It was just…exciting I suppose. To have something to look forward to. Maybe that’s all he felt for me as well.”

“It wasn’t right, what he did, or what they did to you afterward,” Cullen said.

“No. But I'm here now."

He could only be there now, with her. Support her. Let her know none of it was her. “Thank you for telling me.”

“Thank you for listening.”

So that was the “incident” Leliana had brought to his attention at Haven those months ago. He would have never guessed, though thinking of Lydia with another man wasn’t something he liked thinking of, even though he knew Lydia remaining unattached was an absurd thought. She was wonderful after all, and—

“Is something the matter?”

“No, no, nothing’s wrong,” Cullen lied. “Something similar happened to me, you know,” he began, straightening himself, and trying to fill the awkward silence. By the time he thought maybe telling her this wasn’t a good idea, it was already too late. “In Kinloch there was someone that…”

“What?” Lydia asked, turning toward him. 

“I…” but he turned very pink, and said no more. But he didn’t need to. She knew.

“You…spent time with a mage? You were with a mage… _while you were still a templar_?”

“No,” he said quickly, Lydia’s eyes wide with a mixture of shock and amazement. “There’s was a woman there named Neria. I was told she came from the alienage and didn’t usually trust humans but…Maker she looked at me and…I don’t know.” He looked away from Lydia. “She was defiant,” he said, “smart, and kind, and I had never felt anything like that before in my life. I wanted to be with her, but—”

“You didn’t, did you?”

One kiss, that was all. “I didn’t want to take advantage of her.”

“I understand,” she said. “You’re…it was…you’re a good man.”

“I don’t know about that,” he admitted, feeling the blush creep. “I just want to do better now.”

“You are.”

Side by side they stood, by the water and under the stars. He didn’t know what else to say, other than the fact that those feelings, feelings that he once thought wouldn’t happen again, he now felt for her. Maker, how he wanted. How deep it ran. How much it hurt. 

If she too wanted, wouldn’t she say so? That’s what the women in his past had done. And he would not take advantage of her. Not like Asher did. She didn’t deserve that.

He would give only what she would ask.

“Seems we both have an interesting past,” Lydia said, finally breaking the silence. “Do you know what happened to her? The woman, I mean.”

He stiffened. “I don’t know.”

“I see.”

“I never told anyone about her before,” Cullen revealed after more moments of continuing passing silence.

“No one ever told me it wasn’t my fault with Asher. Well, Dorian said it takes two to tango, but—oh, it doesn’t matter. Thank you for what you said. I wasn’t sure what you would have said if you knew.”

“You’re fire,” he said simply. “But…ah. I don’t know. Maybe you’re also like water.”

She peered at him, and he explained. “Think of it like this,” he said. “Fire burns. But water is what is really unstoppable. It adapts and changes. Like you.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, her eyes meeting his. Not looking away.

He wondered if she noticed how close they were. A breath away from a kiss almost. What would she do if he made it known that was what he wanted? To share that secret with her? She would taste like fire and water. Such a strange, yet wonderful contradiction that he would explore with his lips and tongue. Savoring it, and her.

“Lydia,” he whispered, her name a prayer.

“Cullen,” she said in turn. “I—”

“Hey boss they’re about to dance!”

When she turned from him he wanted to jump into the lake.

“Bull,” Cullen called, trying not to grit his teeth. “What’s going on?”

Bull’s head was behind the back doorway to the tavern, though he had to crouch to make sure his large form wouldn’t hit the top. “Oh, hey Cullen,” Bull said. “Didn’t realize you were here too. Boss wanted me to tell her when they were going to begin the Circle Dance.”

“I…thank you,” Lydia said, Cullen noticing her cheeks growing red. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

Rather suspiciously, Bull eyed them. “ _Oh_ ,” he said, drawing it out. “I see how it is. Well take all the time you need!”

When the door closed, Cullen made a point not to look directly at Lydia. He didn’t even so much as move, even though he knew very well that their shoulders were still touching.

“That....well…” Lydia stammered. “Well…”

“Gossip,” Cullen piped. “People talk.”

“That’s true.” She shifted from side to side. “Well, uh…have you ever done the Circle Dance?” she quickly asked, trying to divert the subject. “It’s fun.”

“I’m not one for dancing,” he said. “Templars never attended balls.”

“Someday Cassandra and I will show you the Nevarran Landler. I’m sure you’d like that.”

He agreed, though he would rather it just be him and Lydia.

“Well....uh…” she brushed through her hair. “Let’s go back. Right?”

Cullen opened the door to the tavern for her. The mixture of Inquisition scouts, members of the inner circle, and villagers enjoying a night drinking and dancing raising their mugs and gave hollers of welcome when the two arrived. From the center of the room came the strumming of a lute, and Lydia laughed joyously as several people rushed to the center, interlocked their hands, and formed a circle. She grinned and clapped as she watched, everyone going round this way and back the other way in time with the lute’s strumming.

Lydia nudged him. “Let’s dance.”

“I don’t…”

She grabbed his hand, trying to lead him. “Cullen. I heard you sing that night before we found Skyhold. And if you can sing, you can dance. They go hand in hand.”

“I didn’t know you heard…” he muttered, sheepishly.

She giggled. “Of course I did. You have a lovely voice by the way.”

“I…uh…thank you,” he stammered. “But Lydia…I don’t think I can—”

“Lydia!”

Cassandra called for Lydia from the floor, her hands interlocked with Rylen and another Inquisition scout on either side of her. Cullen thought he would have seen books written by rabbits before he ever saw Cassandra join the dance, but the mead evidently made her loose both her armor and inhibitions.

“Coming!” Lydia said back. “Come on Cullen, come with me!”

Her hand was on his arm. Warm, even under his shirt.

“Go,” he said. “Dance. I’ll watch.”

“Someday you’ll join the dance,” she proclaimed. “Someday.”

And with that, she ran to join the circle.

From the side Cullen watched, Lydia’s joy so contagious that even though he remained outside the circle, he felt as though he was right there with her, holding her hand and twirling her around. She was fire and water, and when she danced, so perfectly did she emulate the two elements. Flame and lapping water on a shore. Passionate, yet calm and cooling. Lydia. Inquisitor. Herald. Slayer of dragons and hero of Adamant Fortress. Roses in her hair. Fire and water. A painting come to life as she danced. Cliodna come to life, and a waking dream.

Cullen looked. He looked at her, and he saw.

Someday, he would join the circle. Someday. And together, maybe, just maybe, together they would dance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey Cullen, are you sure you're talking about dancing at the end?  
> I hope you all enjoyed these past two "relationship development" chapters, because they have been some of my favorites, honestly. Next installment, the plot comes back.  
> Anyway, just wanted to thank you all for the continued kudos/comments and support. For my readers who have been here or just found it and binged, (comments like those always make me grin.) thanks so much!  
> *Sending some Shakespearean snugglies*


	26. Masks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you can spot the hamilton reference, three cheers.

The Winter Palace was a great expanse of a domain, and yet every nook and cranny was adorned and decorated with the utmost detail and heraldry. In smaller, more tasteful amounts Lydia had to admit that the leonine designs and expansive paintings of victorious battles overlaid with gold trim would have been elegant and lovely, but subtly was lost on the Orlesians. And as Lydia explored the palace in her free time, she felt like she was moving about a sprawling town, and not a palace.

Even the wing the inner circle the Inquisition frequented felt like its own neighborhood, a neighborhood where everything ran like clockwork. The elven servants came in at night to tend the fire, and then in the morning they were there again to remove the cinders and ashes. Ten minutes after that, another servant arrived with tea and breakfast, and when they left Lydia gladly devoured the  _pain au chocolat_  that was both decadent and sinful, and made her wonder why she hadn’t seen a portly Orlesian at the Winter Palace yet. When she and the others arrived they were told they could treat the palace as their own home, but Leliana, in her own secret code, said one thing, and one thing only about that. Little birds carry messages to higher places.

Before Adamant Josephine had spoken to Lydia about the Great Game, but in the week they had to prepare before the ball, Josephine, Leliana and Vivienne instructed Lydia about the nobles, the scrutiny, body language and other trivial matters about the court in metaphors that involved Wicked Grace. So Lydia began to think of the Game as like Wicked Grace, save Wicked Grace wasn’t usually played to the death.

“What bothers you is the fact that you don’t like wearing the mask,” Josephine explained two days before the ball, as Lydia sat with her council in one of the foyers. It was true. It was too exhausting. She would rather be surrounded by people where she could be herself. Like with Cullen. 

“Don’t think of it as wearing a mask," Leliana advised. "Think of it as playing chess. Never let your enemy know your next move."

“And never waver,” added Vivienne.

Lydia frowned. “I’m terrible at chess. Ask Cullen.”

A few minutes later, when they spoke of the various characters in Celene’s court, Vivienne asked Leliana if she knew anything about Celene’s occult adviser.

“I’ve had dealings with her in the past,” Leliana replied. “She’s ruthless, and will do anything to achieve her ambitions.”

“What are her ambitions?” Lydia asked. “Power?”

“Perhaps,” Leliana said. “Be on the lookout for her Inquisitor.”

Lydia thought about it. “Perhaps she is the one we are looking for.”

“I don’t know, but that doesn’t mean she isn’t dangerous. You must be on your guard, Inquisitor.”

“She always is,” Josephine said.

Eventually in these meetings, the language of deceit and dangerous machinations became boiled down to one simple concept: talk less, smile more. In addition, she came to the realization that if she spoke cryptically and never revealed her full deck of cards at any given time, if at all, that would be the way to impress the court.

Being charming was vital. She had to make an impression with her wit and conversation, seeing as how the Inquisition’s outfit of choice for the ball certainly wasn’t going to impress anyone.

Josephine, and indeed everyone else would have preferred the Inquisition be given months in advance to prepare, but the short notice they were given did not allow for certain things, one of them being an elaborate and beautiful wardrobe to be custom made for the inner circle. A certain Madame Gautier, a seamstress and designer from Val Royeux, came to the Palace with a design for the uniform for all the members of the inner circle to wear. It wasn’t the tackiest thing Lydia had ever seen, but the harsh yellow shoulder pads, bright red coat, and royal blue sash weren’t the prettiest color combination. At Lydia’s prodding the design was changed from the stark red to a more calming royal blue, with accompany silver sash.

“These hips were made for a designer,” Madame Gautier said when she took Lydia’s measurements for the uniform, her pale blue eyes behind silver spectacles. Eyeing her form up and down, Madame Gautier surveyed Lydia’s appearance. Though she was an older woman with shocking white hair, she held none of the weariness Lydia often associated with age. If anything, Lydia would have guessed that age had made her more adept, and made her eyes keener.

“Hm,” Madame Gautier said, circling Lydia as she stood on a perch in her quarters, the scrutinizing eyes making her feel like an animal on display at the Ostwick menagerie.  
“Top round rear. Wide, feminine hips, and delicate shoulders,” Madame Gautier listed. “Good build overall. Tall. This uniform will suit you at least.”

She made a surprised gasp when Madame Gautier patted her rear. Orlesians weren’t certainly shy about touching, even in places others might have deemed inappropriate. Josephine warned them all, but it was still an adjustment, and not something she particularly liked, even if Madame Gautier was well meaning.

“Ah  _cherie_ ,” the madame crooned. “Someday I would love to put you in the most exquisite gown, but I’m sorry that this is all you’ll have. The lady ambassador has said that you all must look uniform, and I didn’t have enough time to create a masterpiece. Perhaps someday you will have a dress designed by Madame Gautier.”

“Perhaps,” Lydia echoed, wishing she could wear a beautiful blue dress to the ball. She always dreamed about it when she was a little girl. Her mother always promised her she would attend a grand ball in Ostwick, and a handsome man would dance with her. Back then she imagined a beautiful blue dress. She could see the dress back then, but not the man. At one point she never thought the man in her fantasy of dance and revelry would gain a face or a name. 

Perhaps that what have been better than always having him on her mind.

The dance instructor Josephine hired to prepare Lydia always noticed how Lydia lived in her mind rather than the present. Whenever she began her dance lessons with him and she seemed “somewhere else,” he would tell her to come back down from the clouds and land on the dance floor. The instructor was a certain Master Yves from the Val Royeux school of dance, and he was quite lively and mercurial. Every afternoon while his assistant played the grand piano in one of the foyers, he taught Lydia the steps to the Orlesian waltz.

“Ah, lovely legs  _ma belle_ ,” Yves said to her the first day they met. “Riding legs, aren’t they?”

“I…suppose?” Lydia replied.

“Well. They will be good dancing legs as well. The lady ambassador says you are of Nevarran origin. All Nevarrans learn the Landler,  _oui_?”

“ _Oui_ ,” Lydia said, thinking she should keep her opinions about how Orlais stole the art of dance from Nevarra to herself.

“I suppose it will do.”

Before Lydia could think about protesting, the doors to the library opened.

“Well, look what we have here,” Dorian announced.

Running over to embrace him, asking how he got there and what was going on, Dorian insisted that he had already missed Lydia’s brave assault at Adamant, and he couldn’t miss this. Dorian spoke of how jealous he was that she got to walk through the fade, how he knew she fought bravely, but before Lydia could ask about Felix, Yves made an “ahem” from behind them.

“We’ll talk later,” Dorian promised.

So it came to pass that Yves instructed both Lydia and Dorian in the art of the waltz, and though Lydia wasn’t sure how to take Yves initially, she grew to really like the instructor. Around the middle of his life, he too wore silver spectacles, and often he would run his hands through his salt and pepper hair when Dorian or Lydia accidentally broke their frame, or tripped over their own feet. However, he complimented the both of them on their abilities and grace, even if he was somewhat passively aggressive in his praise.  _Oh, that will do. You will not make a fool out of yourself. Now again. Un, deux, tois, quatre…._

After the lessons were through, Dorian and Lydia always rummaged through the library, speaking of what happened in the time they were away. Dorian spoke of Felix, and what happened when he spoke about Lydia in front of the Magisterium, and in return Lydia spoke of her adventures. Dorian seemed happy as the days passed, but on the eve before the ball, when he seemed far away as he stared at the embers of the fire, Lydia put her hand on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry about Felix,” she said, embracing him. “I know you’ve been thinking about him a lot.”

“We’ve both have been thinking about someone.”

She never mentioned his name, not to anyone. But once she was told that the secrets of her heart were written on her face. Perhaps it was a miracle that no found out about Asher sooner than they did, in the time before _him._

She should have known, should have realized, how Cullen’s name was ingrained in her mind, and in her soul.

Maker she loved his name, the sound of it as she repeated it like a prayer in her head before the fade claimed her at night. She loved how his eyes softened somewhat when his name was on her lips, or the way his lips parted slightly when his name became a whisper, a secret shared between them as they stood together overlooking the water. She loved how in that moment, when timed stopped, they stood ready to take that journey, ready to plunge head first into the water and begin this dance. This dance of—

He would not join.

“I’ve barely seen him as of late,” Lydia admitted. Only in brief meetings where he discussed placement of guards with the others during the ball, and made plans with her and the others. In those times it wasn’t Cullen she was with, but the Commander, and rightly he was all business. Did he see though, how she blushed so when their hands touched over the map that was laid out? Did he notice how her eyes always drifted toward his form, wanting to touch, wanting to do something?

It happened slowly, her want for him. So slowly she didn’t even know it was happening, and why it hurt so much when she thought she had broken the two of them beyond repair that day in the garden. Perhaps it was Asher too, that held her back, and his memory.

It was wrong what he did, Cullen said. His love would be different. Softer…and…

Maybe it was silly, to think they could work, knowing where they came from. Maybe she shouldn’t even dream. He cared for another mage once, and he held himself back. And look what magic had done to them in that gap of time since. And the things he said once…

But did anything matter when she was in his arms?

“What are you thinking?” Dorian asked.

“About everything,” Lydia said. “But I have to focus on restoring order. Making the world right.”

And maybe that was all that mattered.

It wasn’t.

 

* * *

 

_Dear Mia,_

_First of all, yes. I am fully aware this won’t be enough. But I’ll say, or write it anyway. I’m sorry._

_To be fair, I have hardly had time to do anything these past two months other than my duties. I’ve marched soldiers to the Western Approach, and then marched back the Winter Palace, where I’m currently writing. (Explaining would take far too many rolls of parchment.) I know, I know though, that’s no excuse for the time before. And I’m so sorry. I didn’t write sooner or more often, and I know that last letter I wrote was pathetic, as you so pointed out. All I can say is I’m not sure if I was myself that day. I’m not sure if I still am, but…but I’m getting there. I was able to read through the large accumulation of letters that had formed a sizable pile on my desk since I’ve been away, and through the constant gibes, insults, and you berating me for not caring, I have to say, I miss you all too._

_I do care. I want more than anything to make the world safe for you, Rose, Bran, and his little one on the way. And honestly, I think…no. I know. ~~Ly~~  the Inquisitor, I believe in her.  ~~She’s wond~~  it would take even more parchment to describe her good deeds and bravery, but…just know that I know she’ll succeed._

_She’ll make the world safe for us._

_Please give Rose my love, and Bran too. I wish I had advice for him, like our father would have had. I don’t think I have his way with words though._

_I promise I’ll write again. Sometime soon. This blasted ball will begin soon. I’ll explain that later too. I just wanted you to know that yes, I am a horrible brother. But I’m still alive, and I still love you all._

Cullen signed the letter, smirking at the large pile on his desk from Mia. When they arrived at the Winter Palace Sera apparently stowed away with Leliana and Josephine, much to their annoyance. In addition to sneaking around the Palace and being responsible for a few pranks involving water falling onto unsuspecting, overly pompous butlers and pages, Sera brought over the letters Mia had sent in the time that he had been away from Skyhold. She brought them because it “seemed like a nice thing to do.” He was half expecting something to fall from the ceiling, looking around as he did after Sera handed him the letters, but he remained unscathed, and Sera commented that she should have just trusted him, and he also should have just eaten that cake she sent him those months ago.

His nerves for the ball where already getting the better of him, though it was hours away and they had already run through the plan a million times. It wasn’t his only concern however. When they first arrived at the Winter Palace he received word from Skyhold about ambushes from Red Templars in the Plains and in the Hinterlands. No deaths, but many were left injured. He wanted Rylen to go back to Skyhold, organize a band of men to go back to Therinfal, but he needed him at the Winter Palace to organize the guards if something went amiss, and seeing what the Inquisition had endured before, something was bound to happen.

At the knock on the door he answered, expecting to see a page or another butler asking if he needed the embers from the fire removed, or more overly sweet Orlesian pastries. Instead, Lydia was at the door.

“Hello,” she said, giving a demure smile. “I haven’t seen you in a while. I was wondering if everything was well?”

“It is,” he replied, “though Maker, I wish…”

She nodded, understanding. “I know. I’m sorry about our men.”

“So am I.”

Barely had they talked since the night they spent together overlooking the tavern, but nothing, yet everything changed that night. At night he still thought of her, the shame of using her image not enough to make the want stop. For too long since that night he wished to see her so he could say something, anything, yet now that he had her…

What was wrong with him?

“I thought perhaps…I don’t know. Maybe you would save a dance for me later,” Lydia said, playing with her hair. “I know you said templars aren’t one for balls, but…perhaps…”

He felt himself fidget. “I…”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t—"

“No! You’re not…don’t be sorry. It’s only, I make a fool out of myself far too much. I try to avoid it when I know I can, that’s all.”

“You’re not a fool.”

“Many people disagree,” Cullen mumbled.

“Where are you Inquisitor?”

Coming into view was Josephine, her usual calm demeanor dissipating as the evening loomed. It was only just, but Cullen had spent enough time with the ambassador to know when she was bothered.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you!” she exclaimed, grabbing Lydia’s forearm.

“I wasn’t trying to hide, I just…”

“We need to get you ready!”

“It’s still early afternoon!”

“I didn’t realize the Duke of Rouen was coming Inquisitor!” Josephine said as she began to pull Lydia away. As she prattled about the proper way to discuss the duke’s estate, Lydia turned to Cullen. “See you soon,” she mouthed.

He waved. “See you soon."

_Next time you have the opportunity, tell her you dolt._

Head swimming, Cullen slipped into the upstairs library, hoping to find a book that would quell his thoughts. The library was quite large, with a fireplace and red velvet couches in the center. As Cullen looked through rows of books that lined the room, hardly anything was captivating his interest. He settled on a history book about the Orlesian theatre, but once he began to read the words blurred together. Lydia was in his thoughts. Every part of her.

_You are not a boy. You are a grown man._

Kissing her would be perfect. It would be like being enveloped by a warm and welcoming flame, arms soft, welcoming.  _Perfect._

“Hello.”

The voice was so soft he would not have been startled had he not been so buried in his reverie. But Cullen jolted, only relaxing when he saw it was a boy in front of him. He was holding a book, the title obscured by his hand, and around ten years of age, or so Cullen would have guessed. His hair was dark, parted in the middle, and he wore a simple dark tunic with breeches that was nothing at all like the typical Orlesian gaudiness he came to expect at the Winter Palace.

“Eh, hello,” Cullen said, straightening himself. “Who are you?”

He didn’t respond, but he cocked his head, observing. Cullen was left with a feeling of unease and wariness. He never knew a child before who studied with such intent, or had a gaze that could see through every part of him. Yet this boy, strange yet calm, his dark gaze saw Cullen. Really saw.

“The lyrium gives you terrible dreams, doesn’t it?”

Cullen, left with no words, only stared at the boy as a thousand things passed unsaid. Was the lyrium so ingrained in his blood and body and everyone knew, and this boy was the only one without the decorum to ask? But how could this boy know? How was it possible? How...

“Kieran.”

At the sound of this new voice, one that belonged to a female, Cullen turned toward it. The voice was heady sounding and deep, that of a female tenor. Somewhere, though he wasn’t sure where, he had thought he heard that voice before.

She came into view. She was a woman with dark, raven black hair pulled away from her face. She wore an outfit that looked more like rags that were pieced together rather than clothes, and the garments barely covered most of her torso, revealing much of her pale skin. As the woman kneeled in front of the boy, it became unmistakable. That was her son.

“What are you reading Kieran?” she asked, and when Kieran showed it to her, she nodded approvingly. “Very good,” she commented. “Now you must move on to more of your studies, little man.”

“Do I have to mother?”

“Yes Kieran. But only for a little while longer.”

Kieran pouted, but did what he was asked. Cullen saw a coldness in this woman’s stance and demeanor, a sense of aloofness, but it all disappeared when she kneeled to her son. It was only when she turned her gaze to Cullen, her yellow gaze, that they both remembered.

She was a mage. He knew that much immediately, as only mages had unnatural eye colors, and indeed Cullen had never seen more unnatural eyes in his life.  
But that was not the first time he had seen those yellow eyes.

His throat constricted, the wind feeling as though it was knocked out of him. Not back there, not back there, he chanted, still remembering the feeling of hopelessness and despair that happened that night in Kinloch when he was trapped, and this woman’s cold unwavering yellow gaze eyed him with all the contempt in the world. _Not back there. Not…_

“I know you,” the woman remarked, placing her hand on her hip. “You were the templar boy in the circle tower.”

“I’m…no longer,” he managed to say. He wasn’t feeling any calmer, but he knew. He was not going to falter as he had before when he remembered. As long as he avoided those yellow eyes.

“I am Morrigan,” she introduced, “lest you have forgotten. Of course, I don’t think we were properly introduced back then.”

“Not entirely.”

She studied him as if he was a curiosity. If her memory was good enough to remember him, then surely her memory was good enough to remember what he had said when he was on the brink of madness. But though she did look at him curiously now, she did not hold that judgmental, contempt gaze as she had those years ago.

“You’ve changed since then,” she observed.

“Yet you still remembered.”

“I can remember many things, templar.”

“I’m not a templar anymore,” he said, asserting himself.

“I have heard you are Commander of the Inquisition,” she conceded.

“Yes,” he replied.

“Do not worry, I will not strike you with a bolt of lighting,” she assured, apparently noticing his wariness. “To strike down the Commander of the new Inquisition, why that would be most foolish. Though I must say, it is quite brave of you to come here to the library alone, what with the elves whispering of a Tevinter assassin.”

“Do you know anything of the plot to assassinate the empress?” Cullen countered suddenly, forgetting everything Josephine told him about tact.

“Such bluntness!” she exclaimed. “You must think I am the assassin, no? Tell me, what good what it do me to see Orlais fall to Corypheus?”

“You know of Corypheus?” He was left completely incredulous. He was under the impression that no one would have believed or knew of Corypheus, unless they were there in Haven.

“I know a great many things,” she replied coolly.

“Such as?”

“I know he threatens us all. Human, elf, dwarf. Orlesian, Ferelden. Mage or templar.”

The accusatory edge in her utterance of the words was not lost on him “It’s been a long time,” Cullen said. “I’ve changed.”

Morrigan’s gaze went to the door, following the same path that her son had taken just a few minutes prior.

“So have I,” she muttered.

It didn’t matter that she left after that. He felt no longer calm.


	27. Taken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for PTSD and withdrawal symptoms.

“Presenting Lady Inquisitor Lydia Rowena Theodosia Trevelyan, of the Ostwick Circle of Magi. Vanquisher of the rebel mages of Ferelden. Crusher of the vile Apostates of the mage underground. Champion of Adamant Fortress. Herald to the blessed Andraste herself.”

“He’s so full of it, that’s not how it went,” Cullen heard Sera scoff behind him.

“Accompanying the Inquisitor: Cassandra Allegra Portia Filomena….”

“Get on with it!”

“…Pentaghast.”

“Maker’s breath,” Cullen muttered as Gaspard finished Cassandra’s titles. “How long will we stand here?”

“Hush Cullen,” Josephine chided.

“Her Ladyship, mai bhalsych of korse.”

He had to hold back the unexpected chortle. “You and Sera have the humor of a ten year old boy,” Leliana mumbled, and she nudged him after the rest of Lydia’s companions were announced, reminding him to stand ready.

“Presenting the advisors to the Inquisitor. Ser Cullen Stanton Rutherford of Honnleath. Commander of the forces of the Inquisition, and former Knight Commander of Kirkwall.”

As instructed, Cullen walked the long walkway, feeling every eye of the court on him, and feeling like the walk would never end. Since they arrived, dressed in their blue uniforms with silver detailing and the ball had really began, he overheard the whispers of the court. They happened in Haven, now they were happening here. Lydia took it all in stride, even sneaking him a smile as they prepared to enter the ballroom from the vestibule. In his rush to get ready after he left the library that afternoon, his attempts to sneak to Lydia and give her words of reassurance didn’t come to fruition. In his steed, he told Rylen to deliver a message to her: you can do this.

Rylen did as he said he would, as Lydia smiled at him in the vestibule, giving his arm a squeeze. “You can too,” she whispered. From her, he believed it.

Once Josephine was introduced to the entire court, and everyone was accounted for on the landing, empress Celene Valmont made a grand flourish from above. Cullen didn’t understand why the empress preferred to speak in riddles, but then again he hadn’t met an Orlesian yet who didn’t adopt that same ridiculous manner of speaking. Josephine had apparently taught Lydia this art of speaking, as her responses back were equally poetic and coy as any Orlesian noble. Pleased, Celene gave the faintest of smiles from behind her mask, Lydia planting the seeds that would sway her to their side.

“Even the wisest mistake fair winds for foul,” the empress waxed. “We are at the mercy of the skies. May I present to you the grand duchess of Lydes, Florianne, without whom, this gathering would not be possible.”

“What an unexpected pleasure,” the duchess drawled. “I did not know the Inquisition would be joining our festivities.”

“Interesting,” Cullen heard Leliana mumble to Josephine.

Once they were up the stairs to the main floor, Lydia pulled the three advisers aside.

“Gaspard said the ambassador has been meddling,” she murmured. “I’m going to have to investigate.”

“Be discreet,” Leliana advised. “The three of us must remain here.”

“And you cannot be gone for too long, Inquisitor,” Josephine added. “If you remain away for too long—”

“Josephine, Josephine!”

As a woman wearing a yellow dress and matching frilly mask appeared, Leliana introduced her to Cullen and Lydia as Josephine’s sister Yvette. As Josephine, rather begrudgingly, rushed to meet her, Leliana whispered something to Lydia before heading away. Left alone, she motioned for Cullen to follow her.

“Leliana wants me to speak with her,” she muttered as the two of them backed against the wall. “Wonder if she found anything interesting.”

“I had an interesting day in the library myself,” Cullen said. He was still bewildered by Morrigan and her son, and when he told Lydia about it, she rubbed her forehead, deep in thought. He advised her to be wary if he came across her.

“Do you think she has any plans?” she asked.

“Who doesn’t have plans here?”

“True. Everyone is a viper. Some people are more overt about it, while others like to hide in the grass. You need to be careful too.”

Just as soon as she gave them that advice she flashed a broad smile, and Cullen realized she was smiling at the grand duchess, who was passing by them a little too closely than may have been normal. Florianne smiled back, but the smile did not reach her eyes, and as soon as she was enough distance away, Lydia said one thing: "up to something."

“I’ll keep an eye out,” Cullen promised. “You best go talk to Leliana.”

When she nodded he swallowed, knowing she had to leave, but not wanting to be left alone. Since meeting Morrigan, his throat was still constricted, senses elevated, and he felt the onslaught of a cold sweat that left him in shivers that were becoming harder to control. It was this place that was doing it. He hated everything about it, and he didn’t know why.

“I’ll check on you as soon as I can,” she said.

“Ly…Inquisitor, you don’t…”

“I do,” she said. “I’ll be back.”

He didn’t know how much he would want her by his side after she left.

 

* * *

 

 “They know little about you,” Leliana said after Lydia met her outside the doors to the ballroom. “Ostwick and the Marches have the reputation of being quaint and backward in their eyes, and from what I have gathered, they have yet to decide if they should like you, though you handled yourself well with Celene.”

“Have you seen the occult advisor yet?” Lydia asked, remembering what Cullen told her.

“Not yet. But I suspect she’ll make herself known.”

“How can Celene even keep an apostate at court?”

“When the Circles fell, the term “apostate” lost much of its power. Indeed, some regard you as one. The Imperial court however, has always had a position for a mage. It used to be little better than court jester. Vivienne was the first to turn that position into one with real political power.”

“Earlier you said you had dealings with this woman in the past,” Lydia brought up. “Where?”

“I met her in Ferelden,” Leliana answered, using hushed tones as Lydia sat down next to her. “For some time, we traveled together.”

“Wait a minute. Why didn’t you mention this before?”

Like she usually did when speaking of herself or her past, Leliana was being incredibly vague.

“Leliana. Did you travel with her during the Blight? With Miranda?”

Leliana didn’t respond, but Lydia knew she was right.

 

* * *

 

 “Lydie. I found this.”

Behind the pillars in the garden, Sera handed Lydia a few jumbled pieces of official looking paper.

“Treaties,” Lydia mumbled, glancing over the documents, Gaspard’s name scrawled along the line at the bottom. Lydia would have to give them to Josephine to be sure, but from the looks of things, Gaspard promised favors to the council of heralds to curry favor for himself. “Where did you find this?” she asked Sera, who unceremoniously dropped the papers in her hands in the outside courtyard.

“Balcony,” Sera replied, pointing up. “Through a locked door. Got up there by climbing.”

“Did anyone notice?”

“They were too busy trying to be better than everyone else to even see. But this helps, yeah? We can leave soon?”

“Trying to be better than everyone else” really was the best way to describe how everyone was acting at this place. “Thanks for climbing the fence,” Lydia said. “So I didn’t have to. Anything on the occult adviser though?”

Sera shook her head just as the bell rang. The rest of the council of Heralds were likely arriving, and Josephine had told Lydia earlier the importance of introducing herself to all of them. Lydia left Sera by the fountain, waiting until the second bell rang as Josephine instructed. The Orlesians loved to do things on their own time, and appreciated it when others did as well. Lydia being a little late would impress them, Josephine said. She didn’t really understand it, but she had followed Josephine’s advice before and it worked like a charm. Josephine knew how to win. And the quicker Lydia won, the quicker this part of the evening would over with, and the quicker Lydia could get back to sleuthing. The quicker this could be over with, perhaps she and Cullen could—

“Well, well. What have we here?”

Lydia paused, backing away from the door to the ballroom, and hearing a heavy clank of footsteps behind her. The voice that she heard, deep, smooth, distinctly feminine and distinctly not Orlesian, stilled the air as she recognized Lydia as the leader of the new Inquisition. “Delivered from the Fade by the blessed Andraste herself,” she continued, mocking the tale as she spoke, punctuating every word, and when Lydia met this woman’s yellow eyes, she immediately knew two things. The first was that this had to be the occult adviser. The second was that out of everyone else that Lydia had met this evening, this woman was looking at her in a manner different than anyone else had that night. While the Orlesian nobles gawked at the curious Inquisitor as a sight to revel in, a curiosity they would study akin to something at a menagerie, the woman in front of her, wearing a dress of red velvet, studied Lydia as a woman. Still though, Lydia could not get over her eyes, turned unnatural due to her connection to the fade. It was the same as a few other mages she had known in her time, but these strange yellow eyes held something inquisitive. Something cunning.

“What could bring such an exalted creature here, to the Imperial court?” The woman wondered. “Do even you know?”

Lydia smirked. “We may never know for sure. Courtly intrigue.”

“Such intrigues obscure much. But not all. I am Morrigan. Some call me adviser to Empress Celene on matters of the arcane.”

Lydia placed her hand on her hip, mirroring the same thing the occult adviser she heard so much about was doing. “Morrigan,” Lydia said carefully, sounding out each syllable. “So that’s what you’re called. I’ve heard quite a bit about you.”

“Of that, I have no doubt. Leliana is different, from when last we met. Capable. I have heard she has built a rather large spy network for your Inquisition.”

“So you did travel with Leliana and Miranda then."

“Indeed,” Morrigan said, perhaps a bit impressed. “So did you, for a time. Or so I heard.”

“How—”

“Ah, another time, another place,” Morrigan half-chuckled. “This is the Winter Palace Inquisitor, and we all hunt our prey. Perhaps though, you and I hunt the same prey?”

“I don’t know, do we?”

“You are being coy.”

“Isn’t that what one does in the Winter Palace?”

She conceded before continuing. “Recently I found and killed an unwelcome guest in this very hall. An agent of Tevinter. So I offer you this. A key found on his body.”

Morrigan handed Lydia the small brass key. She had an idea where it led, she had overheard Briala’s people speaking of goings on in the servant’s quarters. “I cannot leave Celene’s side to search,” Morrigan said. “You can.”

“Why did you leave her in the first place? She could be in danger now.”

“I must return to her anon, but she is safe enough. For the moment. ‘Twould be a great fool that struck her now.”

“Why do you protect Celene?”

“If something were to happen to the empress, eyes would fall first to the “occult advisor,” even if they knew otherwise. I would have captured the agent had he not attacked me first,” Morrigan explained before Lydia could ask the next question on her list. “I regret I could not, but whatever the Imperium’s intentions are, I suspect you know far better than I.”

“Briala’s people are whispering about disappearances in the servant’s quarters,” Lydia decided to reveal. “This key may lead there.”

“The ambassador has eyes and ears everywhere. Proceed with caution Inquisitor, not all enemies are those from Tevinter.”

Lydia thumbed the key in her gloved hand, and carefully placed it in the folds of her jacket. She could be walking straight to an ambush, orchestrated by Morrigan herself. “Are you one of those people, Morrigan?

A smirk played on Morrigan’s lips. “Everyone is an enemy to our own wants and desires, Inquisitor.”

 

* * *

 

Battle had a clear goal and aim: protect your men and win the day. Yes, he knew underneath it all battles that and war were so much more than one side versus the other, but in the heat and rush of fighting, there was nothing but you, your allies, and the enemies. It was simple, and even if the enemy was pressing a sword to your gut, you knew exactly where you stood with the other.That, anything at all, would have been better than standing in the Winter Palace, surrounded, and not knowing where he stood with any of these people, or why they wished to violate him.

They toyed with him like a cat would toy with a mouse, then congratulated themselves on every reaction that they elicited. He wanted nothing more but to escape from their jeering, scream at them that he wasn’t their plaything or toy. But he couldn’t, and they knew that. They preyed on him. Just like…

_No._

“Are you married, Commander Cullen?” A vapid, giggling woman with a black and white checkered mask tried to pry from him once, then again when he didn’t answer. No. Not back there, he chanted. Not back there.

“Not yet,” he said through gritted teeth. “But I am already taken.”

“Still single then?”

He jerked when he felt a pinch, and barely holding back his surprised cry, he turned around. “Did you just…grab my bottom?”

“I’m a weak man.”

“That…what gives you the right to…?”

“Cullen?”

Everything was spinning. There was a burning in his throat. The call for it as they wouldn’t relent. There was no air. Again and again and again and…

“Cullen.”

Someone was grabbing ahold of him, leading him away. Soft, warm. Steadying him until he was leaning against a parapet outside. Cool air. He wasn’t trapped. He was all right. He was with her.

“Oh Cullen,” the soft leather of her glove was on his cheek, wiping away the beads of sweat. “I’m so sorry. I…”

Cullen took Lydia’s hand. Clenched it hard. “I…I don’t want to remember,” he told her. “Not now. But they don’t care that they’ve violated. They don’t—”

“Shhh.”

Was he sinking into her until, or was she pulling him in? He didn’t know. All he knew was that her arms were around him, and his head was buried in the crook of her shoulder. He knew she needed to go back, but for a few more selfish moments he remained, Then, in something even more selfish, he wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her in.

“Fuck them all,” she whispered in his ear.

He laughed softly into her shoulder. “Have to go back,” he muttered, this one moment reinvigorating him, making him realize everything would be fine, so long as she was there.

“I don’t want to leave you.”

“You have to.” Reluctantly he removed his arms from her. “I’ll be fine.”

She didn’t believe. “Cullen.”

“Really. The sooner this is over with, the sooner we can leave.”

She remained unmoved. “I want you to be all right.”

“I am all right,” he said, though the burn would not dissipate, nor would the pounding of his head, nor the cold sweat abate. But these were things he knew and lived almost always. He could endure it.

She squeezed his shoulder, before promising she would be back before slipping inside, casting him one last look. He waited a moment before straightening his coat, taking a deep breath, and walking back in.

Leliana regarded him as he slipped back inside. “What’s the matter?” She asked, careful so no one else could hear.

“Nothing. Where did she go?”

“She’s dancing with Florianne.”

Cullen glanced toward the dance floor. Sure enough, there was Lydia, taking the position of the man as she waltzed with the grand duchess, blue uniform twirling along with Florianne’s blue dress. “Well, perhaps the dance lessons weren’t so ridiculous after all,” Cullen commented.

“There was fighting in the servant’s quarters,” Leliana mumbled. “Did you know that Commander?”

He didn’t. “Have one of your agents send Rylen a message. Guards must be stationed around the palace.”

“It will be done.”

“Well, well, well.”

When Cullen and Leliana faced Morrigan, the mage smirked at Leliana. If Leliana was fazed, and Cullen had a suspicion that she was, her training at the courts of Halamshiral allowed her not to show it.

“Ah. The former templar commander, and the left hand of the Divine, now seneschal to the Inquisition,” Morrigan graciously continued. “It’s good to see you again, Leliana.”

“Lady Morrigan,” Leliana greeted, specifically eyeing her dress of red velvet.

Morrigan must have enjoyed Leliana’s gaze, as she chuckled. “I was wondering if you would like this. My son chose it.”

“He has…good taste,” Leliana muttered, albeit somewhat begrudgingly. “I see you have done well since last we met.”

Already Cullen had connected the pieces. If Morrigan traveled with the hero of Ferelden, and Leliana had too, then of course they would have known each other. Once, they would have fought by each other’s side.

“I have been fortunate,” Morrigan replied. “You have too, it seems.”

“And your…”

“A boy. Leliana. A child as any other.”

And yet Cullen suspected that’s not what Leliana was expecting.

Icy seconds ticked away, Leliana and Morrigan’s gazes not wavering away from each other, while Cullen became the unwilling spectator. Eventually though Morrigan nodded, turning her attention elsewhere. Leliana wore a cool, tight lipped smile as she departed.

“I take it you are not fond of her?”

She didn’t answer. “We must wait for the Inquisitor,” she said, though her eyes still never trailed away from Morrigan.

After Morrigan departed, and there was only the waiting, Cullen shifted from side to side, feeling himself waver. “Are you…what’s wrong?” Leliana asked, her hand on his back.

“Is it…?”

“This is almost over,” he said. “Then I’ll be fine.”

The convulsion ran through, the beads of sweat gathering at his neck. He may not have been surrounded anymore, but that didn’t matter. He was still prey that was hunted. Haunted. Never ending.

And there was Lydia, casting a glance at him before slipping into the other wing of the palace. Making sure he was all right. Why did he feel so guilty, that she was looking, making sure all was well? He was her adviser and commander. He should be making sure she was all right, not the other way around.

Haunted and hunted, while all the while, there it was. Nagging and persistent. The guilt.

 

* * *

 

Later on, Lydia told Cullen, Cassandra, Dorian, everyone but Josephine really, the whole truth of the matter. She wasn’t the one that reconciled Celene and Briala. It was Sera.

She was the one that found the locket, stowed away in a vault.

“I owe you my life. And Orlais owes you it’s future,” Celene said, turning from the railing to Lydia, and when she handed Celene the locket back, this time for good, the empress placed the locket around her neck, stowing away with Briala to indulge in a moment together. Lydia smiled at the two, glad something went right with no hiccups, for once.

“Well.”

The footsteps echoed as Morrigan approached. “Well, if it isn’t my favorite occult adviser,” Lydia said.

“Am I? Well, you will probably like the next bit of news you are about to receive.”

“News?”

“Watch.”

Turning from each other toward Lydia, both Briala and Celene kindly regarded her. “Inquisitor, please enjoy the rest of the ball. We hope you will stay at the Winter Palace as long as you would like,” Celene said.

“I appreciate it your majesty, but I’m afraid we will have to depart as soon as we are able.”

“Please know then, that you are always welcome at Halamshiral. There is however, something else we can offer you. It is good that you are already here, Lady Morrigan.”

Lydia’s mouth dropped as Celene told Morrigan that the Inquisition needed her services more than she did now. Even more surprising however, was the fact that Morrigan pledged her service.

“Welcome to the Inquisition, Lady Morrigan,” Lydia replied.

“A most gracious response. Come, shall we talk?”

Lydia curtseyed again to Celene and Briala before accompanying Morrigan to the outside balcony. “You knew this would happen,” Lydia claimed, mirroring Morrigan as she rested against the balcony.

“Indeed,” Morrigan replied. “Our relationship was beneficial while it lasted, but I knew this was coming to an soon. There were too many wagging tongues, even for Celene. Worry not. I bring many skills, some of which I am sure you will find useful to your cause.”

“Such as?”

“I am a skilled mage, and I carry knowledge beyond what you will find in one of your Circle books.”

Lydia’s eyes narrowed. “Are you a blood mage Morrigan?”

“Knowledge alone does nothing Inquisitor. Knowing how doesn’t mean I practice. Besides, you have taken a skill beyond the knowledge of most mages, as the nobles whisper among the halls.”

“It’s called rift magic.”

“You use the fade, do you not? Tis a most useful skill, no? Worry not. I would not dare to use blood magic, least of all with who you call the commander of your forces.”

Lydia sensed a somewhat biting edge in Morrigan’s words. “Do you want to join Morrigan?”

“What I want is irrelevant as I have been assigned to aide you. However, I do pledge myself to your cause, Inquisitor, and I will not see this only halfway. Corypheus seeks great harm upon us, and I will not see him win.”

“Just like you once helped Miranda stop the Blight?”

“Yes,” she replied, raising her brows quizzically. “I suppose Leliana told you?”

“I figured it out for myself,” Lydia said. “Perhaps one day you’ll tell me your version of events?”

“Perhaps,” Morrigan replied. “But enough. Someone desires your attention, I won’t take it away from him. I will see you at Skyhold.”

Morrigan reminded Lydia of a cat as she walked away, hips swaying in an exaggerated manner. Lydia had an inkling about who that someone was who desired her attention, yet still when she saw Cullen at the doorway, something inside her soared.

“There you are!” Cullen exclaimed, walking on the balcony. “Everyone’s been looking for you. Are you all right?”

He seemed better than he had been earlier, the lines that had formed on his face disappearing, and the hard weariness in his eyes were coming back to their usual warmth. She asked Leliana and Josephine to make sure he was doing well in her steed while she was gone, but she wasn’t sure if he was still affected. He might have been putting on an act, or a mask for her benefit. It was something he would do, and had been doing, though sometimes the walls broke down. Before she didn’t understand how much his past weighed in on his now, but as the walls continued to break, she wished he knew how much it didn’t matter to her.

“I’m fine,” Lydia told him. “But Cullen, earlier, you—”

“It’s over now.”

She wasn’t sure if she believed him, or if his chatter was a way to make him forget. Leaning against the balustrade he talked of how Cassandra greatly approved of Lydia’s decision to reunite Celene and Briala, and both Josephine and Leliana thought Lydia’s speech to Florianne would be the talk of court for years to come.

“You’re not mad, are you?” Lydia asked. “I know you said Gaspard would be a good choice. I just didn’t think—”

“You don’t have to justify your decisions to me,” Cullen said with a smile. “In good conscious I don’t think I could have let the empress fall. I simply thought that perhaps a leader who was military minded could benefit our cause.”

“Cullen. Gaspard wanted to bring the empire back to its glory days. That might have meant invading Ferelden. Your home.”

“I uh…” he must not have thought of that before. “Well,” he said, diverting the subject. “It doesn’t matter who is on the throne. They’re all vipers.”

She chuckled. “I was worried you might die when I told you I was going to talk with the grand duchess.”

“I think I almost did,” he admitted.

She fell a little closer. “You…you had me worried earlier, you know.”

“Did I? I’m sorry. I shouldn’t falter like that.”

“There’s nothing to apologize for.”

He was brought back somehow, to that night. She only wished she knew what triggered it. “Really Lydia,” he said. “I wish…”

“There’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I was supposed to support you tonight. I didn’t want you worrying about me.”

“You say that like it’s a bother. It’s not a bother. Not at all. I—”

She had never done that before, or been in the position where she was near someone she cared for, and admitted it to them how she felt. Before she could finish it and say the words, _Cullen, I care,_ something stopped her. It might have been her relative inexperience, or simply the fact that they were at the Winter Palace, and she wanted the moment to be special, and this might not have been the best place. None the less Cullen put his hand on her face, cradling it, like if he touched her too hard she would break. But she wouldn’t break, and she wished he knew that.

“What?” he beckoned, speaking softly as he willed her to go on. His voice was so different when he was with her. Somewhere in the recess of her mind, she must have noticed earlier, but now was when she truly appreciated and loved how the hard edges disappeared in his phrasing, as did his inherent sense of command. Commander with everyone else, guarded, and duty ever present. Cullen with her. Cullen, the boy who once lived in Honnleath, the man who still had so many dreams.

“You can let me worry about you a little,” she whispered to him.

From the ballroom there was applause, and the music changed into something softer and more melodic. Lydia saw the flicker in Cullen’s eyes, and she felt a frisson of excitement when she realized, he was up to something.

“Maybe there is something I can do,” he said, bowing slightly. And clearing his throat, he extended his hand, and asked if she would do him the honor of dancing with her.  
Her hand almost to his, she reframed from taking it, even though everything inside her screamed to. “You said you didn’t dance,” she reminded him first.

“For you, I’ll try.”

So earnest he was, perhaps he even had a hint of pride as she placed her hand in his, and gently, they began to sway. For someone who said he didn’t dance, he knew what to do when their hands locked. He placed his hand on her back, guiding her into his frame, and as she placed her hand on his shoulder he guided her and led the dance, sidestepping this way and that way. Perhaps once he accidentally stepped on her toes, and even though she laughed and laughed he kept offering apology after apology.

“I stepped on my father’s toes a lot when he taught me how to dance,” she said. “We all do it. I have to say though Cullen, you’re doing a good job. Perhaps it’s because I always thought sparring looked a bit like dancing, and—”

“You’re beautiful.”

They shared the same space, breathed the same air. Once she read that sharing the same air and breath as another meant sharing the same soul. Perhaps it was why looking at him them became too much, too overwhelming. And as they shared the same soul, she saw everything in his eyes. His hopes, his wariness, his past torment, his want for her.

“You…I heard you, in the ballroom before I came,” she muttered, remembering. “You said you were taken.” At the time she didn’t think much of it, so concerned she was with him. Briefly she had the thought that perhaps he said it merely to make them stop their assault. She didn’t think she was allowed the audacity to believe he was speaking of her. She didn’t think she had the right to make that assumption.

“Cullen,” she breathed, now realizing that maybe she did have that right, for longer than she may have known. “You were…”

“I am…quite taken.”

She didn’t realize her fingers had been playing with the wisps of curl at the base of his neck. She didn’t know how her body had gravitated closer to him, or that his hand had drifted down her back, pressing her body further into his and making sure she would not falter. He was so broad she felt encased and enveloped, protected. They stopped moving their feet earlier, and merely he gently swayed her body. She was along a current, and he was her anchor that kept her steady and grounded. The world had only become him, and yet she felt this world had more beauty and oppurtinity than anything she had known before.

“How long?” she whispered.

“Since Haven. Since you were in my arms. Since I first saw you.”

She had to ask. “And…it doesn’t matter that I’m a…?”

He didn’t even so much breathe before he answered. “Never.”

In all her life, she never felt as though she was walking through air, or floating. Now she was. Floating through the sky, a star next to him, making a constellation. Cullen. Radiant, strong. Shattered in places, but all the more beautiful because he put himself back together. Cullen holding her as if he wished he could take her to the stars.

But she knew a way, to take them there.

She closed her eyes. Felt the desire, the want. “Kiss me,” she whispered. “Cullen. Kiss me now.”

Yet when the moment passed, and she waited, nothing came.

She opened her eyes. He wasn’t smiling.


	28. Everything

To kiss was to share a secret.

Cullen had learned this when as a boy, and he witnessed his parents indulge in light kisses throughout the day. His father would give his mother a gentle peck on her temple before going back outside to till the land, or sometimes it would be a long, lingering brush of the lips against her shoulder blade before dinner. Afterward, his mother would smile as she had been given the finest jewels, and his father would beam as if his wife was a beautiful empress, and not the wife of a farmer. And Cullen knew, that though his family shared everything from the fresh vegetables from the harvest, to the warm blankets his mother would knit, the kisses his mother shared with her children were the different sort of kisses she shared with his father. Those kisses belonged only to them, a secret that they alone knew. He and Branson would sometimes make faces at them, and his father would laugh, saying that someday there will be a woman in their lives that they wouldn’t be able to stop kissing.

The secret wasn’t something Cullen was particularly interested in learning at that age, not even with Kate. Kate was one his childhood friends, around the same age as he. She was all long muddy brown hair, scabby knees, and with mischievous green eyes that would sometimes look on him teasingly. Sometimes she would even lightly hit him, and the two would spar with fallen branches. On the day of his tenth birthday however, she took him behind the old oak. He was confused, wondering why she hadn’t pounced on him as she usually did, looking for another rematch in their game of knights, but everything ceased when her lips were on his. It was a child’s kiss, unsure and awkward, but it lingered for a few moments, Cullen recalled, and his eyes remained wide open as he saw Kate’s furrowed face, eyes shut tight in concentration. Confused and bewildered, his lips remained clamped shut until she pulled away. At the time he didn’t think it anything special, but he smiled, and he told Kate that now they had a secret. His first kiss, perhaps it was nothing special, like many first kisses were, but it was his.

Kate had given him one more kiss, the day before he left for the templars. Behind their oak, she promised that she wouldn’t forget him. He promised he would never forget her in turn, and the kiss they shared was a kiss of a different sort. It was deliberate, soft, and maybe it was almost romantic, or as romantic as a childhood kiss could be. This one, he realized he rather liked. But he chose the life of a templar, and he knew when he went in that love, and all the things that went with it, were going to be unlikely. He had a duty, and he would see it through. Perhaps love and kisses then were not impossible, but when _she_ began to occupy a significant portion of his mind, he knew that she was going to be impossible. He had to find other ways to satiate himself, and even though it wasn’t enough to truly satisfy him, the imagined kisses were enough to make him at least a little happy. It wasn’t until they had a real kiss, clandestine in the Circle library, that the imagined kisses were no longer enough. It was at that moment that he understood, really understood what his father had said all those years ago. He would have given anything, anything in the world to feel her again, taste her. Yet they shared only one kiss, and nothing more.

He and his only lover, Elaine, hardly kissed. Perhaps it was why he regarded kissing as more intimate than the act of making love. But he always regarded a kiss as a secret, shared only with another whom he truly cared for. Loved. He did not feel that with Elaine. He felt dirty, laying with her when he did not love her. But he laid with her before he met Lydia, and before he knew that these feelings of really being alive, rather than acting as a hollow shell could be stirred by another within him. She had stirred it, by living and being herself, and Maker, he wanted her kiss and the secrets it brought. He wanted it for so long, and realizing that was more troubling initially than his images of being with her physically, though that was troubling and shameful in its own way.

All of this Cullen pondered as Lydia held him, her very poor dance partner, with her hair in the moonlight and eyes like stars. Her lips, rosy and pink. Slightly parted. His own mouth, eager to capture her lips and make her forget where they were, and brand her with his mouth and leave invisible marks on her neck that spoke of his love and want the way his words couldn’t. Continue to make and share secrets with her.

“Kiss me,” she said, closing her eyes. “Cullen. Kiss me now.”

No, no…

Kiss me. Kiss me…Resist…

“Cullen, what’s…”

Images, flashes of _it_ , stealing her form. Taking and using her image to make him resist. But it wasn’t her. It wasn’t, but it’s mouth and hands were everywhere, and it made him foul, dirty, and he would never be clean again. Convulsions were everywhere, the burn in his throat, the hunger for it. _Maker, take the pain away. Please take my pain away_ … and then when there was nothing...l _et me die. Please let me die. I don’t deserve to live while the others died. Kill me._

“Please come back, Please…”

Hands were on his face. Wiping away sweat. No, he wasn’t back there…he was just…

He was. _He was._

“Lydia…” he murmured, cradling her face, brushing away falling tears that escaped from her eyes. She was crying. Crying because of him. “It’s…you’re…”

“I’m here. I’m real.”

“You’re real.”

“Maker. What happened to you?” she pleaded, despair and anguish bleeding into her voice.

“It’s nothing. I’m fine now,” he said, removing himself from her, straightening his body.

“Cullen…”

“Dammit Lydia… _stop_.”

He didn’t even so much as raise his voice. But he was biting in his demand, too harsh. He never meant to hurt her. He would kill himself before he hurt her. And how close was he, when she was in his arms and remembered…

How close was he to hurting her then? How closer could he come to it?

“Forgive me,” he begged, and he disappeared back into the ballroom. Embarrassed, ashamed, and wanting nothing more than to be normal. To not remember. When she called, he didn’t look back. And when he tried to dream of her that night and what it would have been like to kiss her, instead the fade showed him that which he did not ever want to see again.

She couldn’t know this. It was his alone. She didn’t deserve to know.

 

* * *

 

There were periods of her life where Lydia thought of home, and what it was and meant to her. Home was always Ostwick, even when she lived in the Circle. The stone walls were cruel there, too confining, and it could never be home. Home was her estate by the sea. Eventually though she came to the realization that home wasn’t the estate. It was her mother, and when she found out her mother died, she wasn’t sure she would think of a place as home again.

Skyhold was home now, in a way the Circle never was, or even Ostwick. And when Lydia and her companions returned home, and she fell on her great expansive bed, her thoughts of Cullen wouldn’t quell.

She had hardly seen him on the way back home. While Josephine ordered carriages to take the inner circle back from the palace Cullen elected not to use them, riding his mare instead. Lydia wished she had done the same and rode Pepper back, rather than have someone else take him home, but when she thought of riding by Cullen’s side, knowing he would rebuff her as he had earlier, she couldn’t do it.

She tried to talk to him before they left the Winter Palace. He couldn’t even look at her as he told her he was sorry.

“I don’t know what happened,” Rylen said to her, when they made it back to Skyhold, and the two of them were alone in the stables. “But the mate is ornery.”

“As someone who has known him longer than I have, should I let him be?” she asked.

“He’ll come around.”

“What is it Rylen?” Lydia asked. “Something happened to him in Ferelden during the Blight. I know a little of it, but not everything. He won't tell me everything, but it’s like he still sees ghosts of that night.”

Gravely, Rylen nodded. “He does.”

“I wish he would let me help.” She sighed however, when she realized she didn’t know what she wanted, other than for his pain to go away.

“He chose this life,” Rylen stated.

“That doesn’t mean he can’t…”

“It’s what he always tells me,” Rylen said. “I don’t agree but…” he too, sighed. “We can’t run from happiness. Sometimes people should be selfish.”

She didn’t think she could afford to be selfish, even as she enjoyed a few days of nothingness at Skyhold after the whirlwind that was the peace talks at Halamshiral. Josephine insisted on a few days of rest for the lady Inquisitor, though she knew her advisers still were endlessly working. That included Cullen, who was working on sending Rylen and his men back to Therinfal, so they could find some clue as to the whereabouts of the red lyrium. Soon enough there would be a discussion, but for a a couple of days Lydia was allowed to simply be herself. So, she remained in the garden, tending the roses, knowing Cullen was in his office working and trying to forget there was a moment between them at the Winter Palace.

Pruning the bush and removing weeds, Lydia made the realization that she knew nothing of longing before with Asher. But this, this was longing. This pain of wanting to be let in, the pain of standing on precipice, wanting and knowing they could dive head first into the water, but knowing that something held them back.

“Someone seems far away,”

Lydia had seen Morrigan in the garden earlier, but at her remark Lydia only sighed. She had been doing a lot of that lately. “I am,” she admitted.

“Leliana tells me her scouts have seen Corypheus draw his forces to the wilds. Shouldn’t you be discussing strategy?”

“Can a woman rest?”

“I suppose so,” Morrigan conceded. “You and I must talk soon. I know what Corypheus intends next.”

Lydia raised her brows. “Is that so?”

“It is. Perhaps though,” she drawled. “You should take care of your ailing first.”

“It’s not something I can fix,” Lydia muttered.

“How do you know?”

She didn’t. Not for sure. But how right was it to think she could fix someone?

It wasn’t, not at all.

But she wanted to see him. Maker. Every moment that she was away, she needed to see him, even as they lived in this precipice between friends and lovers.

No more. She left the garden, to Cullen.

 

* * *

 

Throughout his life, there was always something Cullen hoped never to be: a coward. Unfortunately, he knew that’s exactly what he was being with Lydia.

They lived in a place that existed between friends and lovers after the Winter Palace, yet his own insecurities, his past failure, and his memories that continued to plague his mind would not leave him. And like a coward he ignored her, pretended she wasn’t there, so he wouldn’t have to tell her that he couldn’t be the man she wanted him to be.

But in a cruel twist, there was no nightmares, or pain of withdrawal. No. There was nothing but racking guilt.

She wanted him that night, and wanted to take care of him. Support him. Look how he pushed her away. And, he realized later, she didn’t want him to be anything but himself when he was with her.

It was another reason why she was too much to ask.

But when she came to his office, asking to speak of the Red Templars, he wondered. Maybe she wasn’t too much to ask. Maybe. Maybe...

He was fooling himself, even if she was the realest thing he had ever seen. Ethereal, Cliodna come to life, yes, but the only thing that made sense in the world. She was wearing that outfit again, the olive green skirt and white blouse. Her hair was down and loose, and it had grown a little since she cut it. It came a little ways past her shoulders, and was full of soft ways that he could spend hours running his fingers through. He could spend hours looking at her, and still he would not have enough. The more he looked at her, the hungrier he grew. More he wanted, longed, and craved.

Their hands met, over the map on his desk. He was saying something about templars, and Rylen, and the Chargers. At least, he thought he was. He was beginning to forget.

“I…send them at their earliest convenience,” Lydia replied. “I have spoken to Morrigan, and she believes she knows what Corypheus intends to do next. If we can get Samson before Corypheus moves, then…well, I’m sure you can imagine.”

“I can.”

“Uh, well…” she straightened, twisting her hair in her hands. “That was all. I just wanted to talk about the Red Templars.”

He knew better. “But you're lying."

“Yes," she admitted suddenly. “I really just wanted to see you.”

He made his confession. He wanted to see her too.

“Walk with me?”

Nodding and feeling his heart nearly pop out of his chest, he opened the door the battlements. At one point, he may have thought the walk at the Winter Palace was the longest walk he had ever taken. He didn’t know that this walk with Lydia was ahead of him.

“It’s a nice day,” he commented, regarding the evening sun.

“What?”

Giving up, he diverted the subject. “It’s…ugh.” He shook his head, cursing his lack of ability to speak the common tongue. “Was there was something you wished to discuss?”

Lydia was in no mood to play coy. “Cullen,” she began, starting to fidget, but beginning to draw more self-assurance. “You know how I feel.”

“Yes,” he replied, as easily as he would state that the sun would come up. “And…I can’t say I haven’t wondered what it would be like…”

“Whatever your troubles are, they aren’t a burden to me.”

It was to him.

“Cullen, tell me what I did wrong,” she pleaded when he didn’t speak. “If I did something that night, tell me and I won’t do it again. I never want to hurt you. I thought I wanted to day by the garden, but I was wrong. Knowing what I did to you…Maker it still breaks my heart.”

“At the Winter Palace, it wasn’t you,” he insisted, not wanting to talk about that day in the garden again. “I remembered earlier that night.”

“You remembered that night at Kinloch?”

“It was those people, that…they thought they could toy with me,” he said, brushing the memory away and hoping she wouldn’t ask anymore. At his extended pause, she must have sensed his reluctance, and merely stood with him. “Maker,” he muttered, continuing. “After you came I thought it was over with, but…I don’t know. I thought I had some control over this.”

“What made you remember? What did you remember?”

He closed his eyes. _Not back there, not…_

She put his hand on his forearm. “I’m sorry, I—”

“Please stop apologizing.”

She slipped out one more “sorry”, even though she realized her blunder only after the fact. She was backed against the wall, and before he could stop himself, his hands were on her hips. He tried his best not to glance down at her bosom, which he couldn’t help but notice she had…angled closer to him. He swallowed, meeting her eyes. Drowning in them.

He made his second confession. “Do you know how much I want to be with you?” he asked. “But the past, it won’t…”

“Fuck the past,” she said. “I told you I don’t care.”

“Fuck the past?” he echoed. “Lydia, I can’t…fuck the past.” He wasn’t used to that word, and it felt wrong to say. Dirty even. “There’s not a day I wake up where I don’t remember what happened to me, or what I did after that. I’m not going to forget the past.”

She knew that, and she regarded the symbol on his vambraces. Self-conscious of them, he removed his hands from her hips.

“If I stand by someone’s side, I stand by their everything,” she said. “I don’t care about the past. I care about the now.”

Did he?

He didn’t know. Maker, he didn’t know.

He didn’t know if it would be enough.

 

* * *

 

Lydia felt lightheaded as she stood with Cullen, praying that he would see and know that nothing mattered to her. Not the fact that she was a mage, and he was once a templar. Nothing mattered to her but being in his arms.

“Cullen?” she asked, as he seemed so far away. She wanted his hands on her again. She loved his hands, she realized. The hands that carried so much, and may have been sullied once. But they were the hands that carried her, and comforted her. They were his, so she loved them. She wanted them everywhere.

She took them, and interlocked their palms. Her hands were small when his were so big, and she watched as he turned them open to her palms. The mark glowed a faint glow underneath the half glove she wore on her left hand, and she was struck by how silly she had been, to place her hands in his. So much of his sorrows were because of the abuse of magic during that night he did not want to remember, but had to when something brought him back. And there she was. Mage, wielder of fire and marked by an unknown incantation of a Tevinter magister. By all rights, he should despise everything she was. At one point, he may very well have.

But now was what mattered. Now was what she had to live for. And now, Cullen held her hands, and looked onto her lovingly. Mesmerized, she watched him as he brought her hands to his lips. Waves of flame devoured her as gently, his scarred lips left a kiss to her right palm. And as she wondered, would he, does he accept me for all I am, and this is not a dream, Cullen must have known exactly what she was thinking. He knew because he answered her unspoken plea in a way that words would not, as gently, he pressed another, longer and lingering kiss to her mark.

She was lost, and he was lost, and as he continued to leave kisses along the tops of her hands and wrists, she felt as though she were a goddess of old, and he was an reverent pilgrim, giving her his prayers and adoration. When she saw the glimmer of amber underneath his golden lashes peer at her, she cradled his face in her hand, thumb brushing against his lips and scar, the stubble tickling her in the best way. He did not pry away when she outlined his scar, so she continued, tracing the path with her thumb and wondering where he received it. It was the only scar of his that she could see, but she wondered how many more scars he had underneath the plates of his armor. She wondered how many more scars he had that where invisible on the skin, but carved into his soul.

His lips brushed against her fingertips. “There’s not one part of you I don’t want,” he confessed.

“I know.” It was laden with everything he did. Still, hearing it was made her soar.

So beautiful it was, to have something she never knew she wanted, because she never knew it was missing from her last love. So beautiful it was, to have a man see all of her, and still want. All the more wonderful because it was Cullen. Cullen, the rose in her garden. The one that had endured the winter to see the spring, and become all the more beautiful, because he had survived. It was too conceited to say that he survived the winter to come to her, but she couldn’t help it.

He had given her part of his spring, though part of him was still in his winter. If only she knew his winter.

“Cullen,” she breathed. “I want your everything too.”

“I don’t… if I ever hurt you, if I’m back there again, and I say or do something that…”

That was what he was worried about? That he would hurt her? “You won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know that people hurt each other sometimes,” she said. “That happens no matter what. What matters is what happens afterward, and how we chose to endure it.”

“I’m not free,” he murmured, bringing back statements she made long ago, about acceptance and freedom. “Not like you are. If someday my mind is taken away, and I don’t…”

“That’s part of your everything Cullen. I said I wanted your everything. If that ever happens, I’ll remain at your side. In the spring, the winter…”

He wiped a tear away as it fell. She didn’t even know she was crying. “Please don’t cry,” he said.

“I’m sorry I…”

“Sh,” he pulled her body into him, her hands resting on the hard plate of his armor while his chin rested on her head, stroking her hair. “I never want you to cry,” he said. “I never want to hurt you. My dearest. My… _Maker_.” Once more he held her face in his hands. “When I stand here and think of the past, and how it won’t leave me, and how I would have never have allowed this before—”

“Nothing matters but the now.”

“I want us. I want us to have secrets that no one else have. I want to stand by your side. But—”

“Don’t say that. Please. Just be with me. And…”

She didn’t go on and beseech him to kiss her. Instead, her eyes fluttered shut, lips quivering with want. She waited. She waited and nothing came.

Opening her eyes, there was Cullen. Eyes holding everything, yet not holding what she really wanted.

“Maybe…maybe this is too much.”

She wanted to scream. “How? You have a right to be happy.”

“Do I? We have to make the world safe. We...”

“Damn everything to the void!" she spat. "We have to be selfish with this. And if you hurt me later on, so be it. But kiss me now. Be with me now.”

He was unmoved, a blank slate. “I’m sorry," he muttered, and she was falling and he wasn’t picking her up. No one was going to pick her up. How silly of her to think he ever would. How ridiculous to think another would be her everything, give her every part of him as she wanted to give. How silly to think this man would love her. Dearest he called her. He mocked her.

There was a flood of tears, but they would not break. Not here, in front of him.

“Lydia…”

“Commander,” she stated. He didn’t have the right to call her that, to say her name softly as a lover would.

“I would die if I knew I ever hurt you.”

“And yet look what you’re doing.”

He was caught. “Maybe it’s better that we don’t try, that we…Andraste,” he cried, helpless. “I don’t want to stay away from you. This…I have never felt anything like this.”

“Neither have I,” she stated. “But I like it. Even this. Because when I’m with you I, I soar.” Even now, as the tears fell, obscuring her vision and making everything blurry. Even now as she wanted to curse his blighted name.

“Lydia," he said again, softly and beseechingly.

“It’s alright,” she said, wiping tears away, trying to gather herself. “I’m used to wanting things I can’t have.”

“ _Lydia_. No. _Please don’t leave me_.”

Before she could escape away, he took her hand. She let him pull her back, into his arms. She let him because she wanted him to do exactly that.

“I want to give you everything,” she said. “I want to see all of you. The spring, the summer, fall. The winter. I want us to be together, and kiss, and tell each other everything. Make secrets and—"

“Shh,” he beckoned, interrupting her words, as slowly, he pressed his lips to her forehead. He kissed her eyelids as they fluttered shut. He kissed the tears that fell from her cheeks. He kissed the corner of her lips. And when he kissed her mouth, she soared into the sky.

Such a simple thing really, a kiss. It was nothing more than the meeting and exchanging of lips. Yet Cullen’s kiss, it became the kiss of everything. It was telling her, where words couldn’t, that even though he thought of himself as broken and weary, he would try. For her.

It was their first kiss. Simple really. Some may have even called it chaste. And yet, underneath it was everything. Cullen’s everything.

“I want to try,” he whispered when he pulled away.

Was he now crying? Or was that her tear on his cheek? She kissed him then, kissed his forehead, his cheeks. The scar. She kissed his lips, her tongue gentle, seeking an entrance that he gave. Together under the evening sun they were strong arms clinging to each other, a taste of salty tears, and a share of breaths and souls.

“I want to try with you,” he whispered once more, breath caressing her neck, forehead pressing against hers, and somehow Lydia found it more intimate than the kisses they shared, because she knew that was his promise. It was his promise that he would try. That he would stay.

“Whatever comes?”

“No matter what comes.”

For a third time they kissed, and when they parted, she kept her eyes closed. Not because she didn’t want to see, but because for the first time, she was really seeing. She was seeing how it was supposed to be. She could run through the battlements, go and slay the worst high dragon in Thedas, that’s how much joy she had. But she stayed, because nothing could tear her away from his arms. She stayed, because this was home.

“Cullen?” She whispered, delicately removing that stubborn curl from his face.

“Dearest?”

She would never tire of hearing him say that. “You threw the chess game,” she muttered.

He gave a guilty smile of admission. “The oakmoss balm from Rylen. He said it was from the healers. It was you."

"Maybe."

They shared a fit of titters, only to be silenced when once more, his lips fell on hers. Again, and again, the world spinning the entire time. But Cullen remained her anchor and kept her steady. He held her, as slowly, the two of them began to try.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few people to think for this chapter:  
> My mom, for listening to me when I was talking this through, and giving me advice on what Cull and Lyd were going to do.  
> Francoise Hardy, whose song "Voila" I listened to on repeat. (Also honorable mention to the Ronettes. "Be my Baby" got some replays too.)  
> And of course, I want to thank my readers! The continued kudos, commets, etc has really made me one happy Shakespearean.  
> Unto the breach ya'll :)


	29. Everywhere

Either he tried to abate it, or he never realized in those months how greatly he wanted and craved her. Now that he had her, it took every fiber in his being to always keep her near.

In the two days that followed that moment on the battlements, Lydia came to him at periodic intervals, her arms open and eager for every part of him. He was just as eager, and perhaps too demanding, as he worried that his bearded face chafed and felt too prickly on her face as the two of them became a deluge of kisses. But she smiled when he asked, and informed him she rather liked the scrape of his beard. Maker though, sometimes it was just holding her that was enough. He never knew before, how wonderful it was to hold someone and be held by another. And everything about her was perfect. Her touch, her kiss that tasted like fire and flame, her body radiating heat as she sat perched on the desk. Not one part was ill fashioned, and she left him lightheaded and out of his own body. During these times that they spent in his office, her arms would wrap around his shoulders, and her legs would wrap around his waist. She was a drug, an addiction he would drink in again and again, and even now as she sat on his desk, and he left patterns of kisses on her neck and exposed shoulders, he felt as though he would never be satiated.

Initially they would begin these meetings with a sense of urgency, Lydia trying to get as much of him as she could within a five minute period, and Cullen answered her with the same fervor. He came to the realization though that they were doing so because that was what they were used to with their lovers past. It was all urgency and heat with Elaine, and from what Lydia had said about the man before him, he could assume it was the same way. Since now it was the evening time and she had deemed that he had done enough work for the day, he kissed her slowly, his lips and mouth nipping here and there, careful not to leave any marks as he indulged in learning the shape of her lips, and every slope of her neck and shoulders. Somewhere in his mind, he knew they needed to have a discussion about this, and what it meant. But that somewhere was forgotten when Lydia was pressed into him, and all he wanted was to rain her with more kisses.

“Mhmm Cullen,” she murmured as he cradled her head, grasping onto her hair so her neck was further exposed to him. Her moans were intoxicating when his lips made patterns against her neck, breathy sighs escaping her lips. “You… _ah_ …” she hummed as his lips pressed into her pulse point. “Something I…wanted to tell you.”

“Yes dearest?” he murmured, his lips still exploring her.

He felt the vibration as she chuckled. “You can’t call me that. It does things to me.”

“Is that so? _Dearest._ ”

“Oh Cullen…” She put her hands on either side of his face and brought her lips to his. Legs coiled around his waist, a gasp nearly escaping him as he felt her heat pressed into his arousal. She must have felt it as well, because she inched closer to him, moved her hips this way and that way. The relief was only just but he was dangerously close to forgoing all sense of decency and decorum, and pining her on the desk. She was asking that of him, he realized as she began to slide down, arms beckoning him, and—

“Lyd…” he managed, voice hoarse. “We…maybe we…”

Her arms stiffened. “Is something wrong? Do you not want…”

“Oh Maker no!” he exclaimed, quickly kissing her forehead. “It’s only that…uh…” He knew he had to talk about Elaine. At some point, he was going to have to tell her. He just didn’t want to now.

“I didn’t. I wasn’t going to suggest we…do it here,” she stammered. “But you…uh…”

She blushed, making a point not to look at the rather defined…bulge in his trousers. “It’s fine,” he said, trying to think of something that would cease his arousal, a nearly impossible feat with her so near. “Lydia,” he began, trying to find the way to let her know, that when he said he wanted to try, that meant more than the physical. Much more. “Lydia, I don’t want you like this. I mean. I do, Maker I do,” he blubbered. “More than I think I’ve wanted anyone, but…”

“You don’t have to explain yourself,” she assured, taking his hand. “I agree actually. I mean…desk. Hot. But...I don't know.” She leaned into him. “I can’t stop thinking about you. That’s all.”

He felt a wave of masculine pride as chastely, he kissed the top of her hand. “Lydia. Dearest, darling.”

She seemed to glow at the pet names, grasping onto his hand. “So,” she began, quite coyly. “You’ve really never wanted anyone as you wanted me?”

“No,” he admitted. “I mean…I have, been with someone before. In Kirkwall. Elaine was her name. We spent time together. But it never felt right. It’s not as though I didn’t get some enjoyment out of it, but…it didn’t…uh…”

He wanted to run outside and leap off the battlements. “I just…”

“If you don’t want to talk about it now we don’t have to. Or ever.”

“Another time then,” he said, entirely too grateful. “It’s just…”

“Cullen. Relax.”

He smiled, easing a little. “Right. Of course.”

She smiled back, once again taking his hand. “There was something I needed to tell you actually,” she said. “I’m going to have to leave tomorrow, for Ferelden.”

It wasn’t as though he thought Lydia would be at Skyhold forever, but he still felt a little disappointed as she talked about Leliana sending scouts to locate the missing Seekers for Cassandra. Now that they were located at Caer Oswin, Lydia would accompany Cassandra there. They were to leave tomorrow.

“I was wondering. Would you come and see me off tomorrow, in the stables?”

“You needn’t even ask,” he answered.

She beamed, and the two spent more time together in his office, kissing, talking, doing the things that he always thought would allude him before. He wasn’t used to this, having a lover. Whenever Elaine tried to talk with him or laugh with him, he would rebuff her. Eventually she stopped trying. And then he thought he needed to stop comparing what was happening with Lydia to Elaine, because Lydia was Lydia, more wonderful than anyone he had ever known, and if it took a lifetime to learn every one of her facets, he would take that time. It may have been strange, but part of him hoped he would never learn it all. Part of him always wanted to be wrapped in the mystery that was beautiful, radiant Lydia. And when he went to bed that night, as it had been every night, he thought of her. Her body, her kiss, and…

Maker.

“I feel guilty,” he admitted to her the next day, as he kissed her goodbye in the stables. “Last night I thought of you, and…oh.” He stroked his hair away from his face. “I am admitting this aren’t I? Oh Lydia, please don’t laugh!”

“Well, I would have been very insulted if you didn’t think of me that way!” she admitted suddenly. “I’ll have to do the same while I’m away!”

They shared a bout of laughter, and he took her in his arms and kissed the daylights out of her. He knew they would have to do all sorts of talking when she got back, with one of the most notable questions to answer being where do we go from here, but he didn’t think of that. All he thought about was the reunion. Having her again once she returned.

Giving her one last kiss, her feet were lifted off the ground, and she laughed and laughed, admitting she never thought a man would lift her off her feet. That only made him kiss her harder, until there was no one else in Skyhold.

That couldn’t be further from the truth. He just didn’t notice the audience that had gathered around until his eyes opened again.

Cullen crossed his arms. “Yes, yes, if you didn’t know, now you know,” he snapped at the onlookers.

“Cullen,” Cassandra croaked. “I never thought you would be so romantic.”

He shrugged. “It happens, when…well…”

Dorian smirked. “Well. Finally it happened. This is why you’ve ignored me lately Lydia. Sera owes me ten silvers.”

“Wait a minute,” Cullen huffed. “You placed bets?”

“Of course we did,” Dorian replied. “I’d wager most of your soldiers were all anxiously waiting for this day to come too.”

Lydia pulled him to corner that was mostly private. “Gossip was going to happen with our people,” she pointed out. “It’s not like we were exactly private about…matters. People were bound to say some something.”

“True,” Cullen said. People always probably talked about him, at least when he was in Kirkwall the city was big enough for him to be oblivious to it. It wasn’t as though he minded people knowing, or even seeing the two of them.

He thought about it. Maybe part of him did like the fact that everyone knew.

“Does it bother you?” She asked, biting her lip.

“I would rather my—our, private affairs remain that way,” he answered. “But if there were nothing for people to talk about, I would regret it more.”

“True enough,” she said, smiling. “Damn what people say. We deserve to be happy.”

Cullen nodded. “We do,” he said, and kissed her one more time.

Lydia trotted off on Pepper soon after, her companions by her side, but before leaving the gates she turned around to Cullen, to give him one last look. She blew him a kiss, and like a young boy, he caught it, not caring at the faces Dorian made at him when he did.

 

 

* * *

 

In the days that she was away he dealt with the usual lot. Training, overseeing the soldiers and making the last-minute plans for Rylen and his men to go back to Therinfal, and deal with the Red Templar raids.

Rylen was in his office, discussing the plan when the conversation drifted to other matters.

“You know what we need?” Rylen asked. “Bear helmets.”

“Bear helmet?” Cullen repeated, confused. “Where did you ever get such a ridiculous idea as that?”

“I was talking to Carlson the other day. He used to work for a merc band in Jader. They were called the Bears, and they wore hats made from bears pelts. They were even shaped like bears. Just imagine your soldiers storming the front lines with bear helmets. Who wouldn’t want that?”

“I can think of someone.”

Rylen snorted. “Figures you’d think so. You’ve got that lion helmet I got you that you never wear.”

“You fully knew what you were doing when you had that made,” Cullen scoffed.

“I was not trying to capitalize on your hatred for Orlesians, if that’s what you think. I thought it would look interesting with your coat.” Rylen said, before lowering his voice, rather conspiratorially. “Does the Inquisitor know about it?”

Rylen was looking like the cat that swallowed the canary. Cullen really didn’t have the opportunity yet to tell Rylen what happened, but he figured he would have known, as everyone else apparently already knew. When he shook his head, Rylen burst out into loud and uproarious laughter.

“What?” Cullen asked, trying not to hit him.

“You should wear it for her. She’d probably like it. ‘Oh Cullen. My commander. My magnificent beast, come here love and take me!’ _ha_!”

“Maker, please stop."

Rylen only laughed harder. “Mate, you could wear a potato sack and she’d probably like it." 

"I hope you're happy wearing the potato sack to Therinfal." 

Rylen only laughed harder. 

 

* * *

 

 

Rylen’s men, coupled with Bull’s Chargers left the next day. Cullen saw them off, praying for a victory that Rylen promised he would bring. “Don’t think too much,” Rylen told him. “Just have faith.”

Cullen thought that would be a difficult task, but when he saw the letter on his desk when he came back to his office, he thought that perhaps it wouldn’t be hard to think of other things.

He had received a letter from Lydia. Her first letter to him, as his lover.

Indeed, there was something that set it apart from all the letters he had received from her. The endearments, the phrasings of _I miss you,_ and _I can’t wait to see you and kiss_ _you_ among them. But beyond the words that set him alight, there was something in the gentle sweep of the _C_ in his name that seemed to be penned almost carelessly, as if she were in a half dream as she wrote it. It was fitting, for Cullen thought he had been half dreaming since she had confessed her feelings. _Cullen_ , the letter read after the paragraph that explained what had happened when they got to Caer Oswin. B _y the time you get this I’ll be almost home, to your arms. Kiss me when you see me, and don’t stop. Don’t ever stop…_

He took out his own quill and parchment. He didn’t have Lydia’s skill for words, but he tried to explain as eloquently as he could how much he couldn’t wait to hold her again, and about how the day they kissed was the happiest he had been in a while. Perhaps forever. Finishing it, he reread it before he sent it.

He paused when he realized something

 _My love_ , it read at the beginning. _My love,_ he addressed her.

How easily it fell from his pen, so easily he didn’t even notice it at first.

Quickly he crossed it out. But realizing she might see the large blot where he had tried to get mark it out, he settled for starting over, calling her dearest instead. Then when he realized that it was silly to send a letter when she was close to being back anyway, he forgot it all and tossed the parchment aside.

_My love._

Did he dare to throw love into it?

A relationship like the one Lydia wanted, and that he had promised to try to give her had always been for other people, but not for him. That included love, and that all-consuming trust lovers shared with one another. That included saying the words “I love you.” And though she wanted to try with him, love was something completely different.

He thought. Maybe it wasn’t. He wasn’t sure. But he did know that what he had with Lydia currently was satisfying, perfect even. He couldn’t dare wish for more, not when he didn’t know what she wanted in the future. She could wake up tomorrow and realize she didn’t want him anymore. It would shatter him, but if it was what she wanted, then he would not force her into something she didn’t want.

Just live, he thought to himself. Don’t think. Give what she wants to take. Don’t expect, just be happy and live in the moment.

He tried to anyway, to live in the now. Though when he thought of seeing her again, his heart beat a million beats and he couldn’t wait to have her in his arms. He reread her letter at various intervals to fill the gap of time, and much like the knight errant protagonist of the old stories he used to read, Cullen carried around Lydia’s letter right next to his coin, as the knight errant carried around his lady’s favor. When he met with Leliana and Josephine the next morning, knowing she would arrive that day, his hand would absentmindedly touch it through the heavy lining of the pocket of his breeches, thinking of how Lydia would have sat at one of the camps at the end of the long day, lovely in the glow of the campfire, each word chosen with care and adoration. She probably wrote the letter before bed, and before she drifted off to sleep, he boldly wondered if she thought of him the same ways he had been thinking about her at night.

Lydia. Touching herself. While thinking of him. It was sinful, it was…

“Cullen?”

Uncomfortable silence fell as Leliana and Josephine stood, waiting for his opinion. “Uh…” he stammered, “I…”

Leliana smirked. “When the Inquisitor left, did she take your opinions along with your heart?”

So this would be the jibes he was in for, for all eternity. He could hardly wait.

 

* * *

 

 

“You came.”

Standing in the stable, his smile was warm and familiar after being away. “Of course I came,” he muttered, before he wrapped his arms around her. Kissed her. Welcomed her home. She put her hands on either side of his face and left him with kiss after kiss. Their first reunion, and she would make this moment last.

 _Safe and Solid. Protecting and proud. He feels like quiet, stronger when you hold him. Thoughts swim. Loud. But when he’s with you, there’s quiet._  
Cole said that to her, one night at camp, Cassandra and Dorian asleep already. _Endless waves. But you’re an anchor. Try. He will try for you. Never felt anything like this._

She thought of what he said, and realized how true it was.

“I missed you,” he said, and she couldn’t help but notice how tightly he grasped onto her, as if he was making himself believe she was there. “It’s…”

“What?” she prompted.

“Lonely without you,” he finished, sensually kissing the base of her neck, and sending shivers through her. “I want…”

“What?” she prompted again.

“I want to be with you, but…”

Busy. The Inquisition wasn’t going to stop because she and Cullen had finally come together. “This evening,” she said, already quivering with want for the sun to turn into the moon. “My quarters?”

There was a bit of a hesitation. “Cullen?” she asked. “If you…”

“No,” he said. “This evening. I’ll be there.”

The rest of the day passed by as a quasi-blur, Lydia waiting for the evening. She checked in with her companions, but Cassandra was buried in the Lord Seeker's tome, and Bull was training, and Solas was studying. She also met with a visiting Ferelden noble who wanted Lydia to regale how exactly she took down that dragon in Crestwood, and at Leliana’s request, spoke to her about Morrigan.

“Have you noticed anything about her son?” Leliana asked.

Lydia shrugged. “He seems like a fine young man.”

“Yes,” Leliana mumbled. “Strangely, normal.”

“Why wouldn’t he be?”

“Morrigan only does things that will benefit her. Be wary.”

Morrigan may have been cryptic, but Lydia didn’t really understand the inherent animosity Leliana had with her. And what that had to do with her son, Lydia didn't know. She tried to ponder it on her way to the garden, but before she could think anything more of it, someone was putting her arms around her.

“Well. Hello,” Cullen said, before kissing her, and the kiss tasted like promises and secrets of what would come later that evening. He left her breathless, and spinning.  
She carried that kiss in the garden later, thoughts drifting to the new promises they would make that evening.

Her heart beat a million beats a minute as she thought of what might come. Maker, it was a beautiful feeling, to be wanted and lusted after by a man, while also knowing the respect was there. And he did want her, while he also respect her. His kisses were enough to prove that, as well as his gentleness, but there was also his hardness against her when they kissed on the desk, proof of his lust. Yet he pushed it aside, so consumed with decorum as he was. Perhaps he had never thought of taking her on his desk, or against the walls of his office. Well. She had certainly thought, and imagined, and wanted him. Maybe even for a first time. Everywhere she wanted him. _Everywhere._

“Oh darling, if you keep smiling like that, you’re face will crack.”

Vivienne startled Lydia, but she rose from the jasmine flowers and roses she had planted, and came to sit by Vivienne in the gazebo, the same gazebo she and Cullen played chess some time ago. “You and Cullen are a lovely couple,” Vivienne complimented, sitting her book down and motioning for Lydia to sit near her. “You must tell me. When did you first know?”

“It was gradual,” Lydia admitted, taking a seat, dreamy as she imagined. “When I first met him, I never thought I would come to care as I have. And then when I knew, I was overwhelmed, almost. I’m still overwhelmed. But it’s not a burden to be this overwhelmed. It’s soaring.”

Vivienne smiled, reminiscing a time of her own, maybe. “The best ones are like that,” she said.

Lydia nodded. “They are, aren’t they?”

“Which reminds me. I have something for you dear.”

From her pocket, Vivienne pulled out a small vial full of a clear liquid. Lydia knew it immediately. It was the witherstalk potion, used in the Circle to prevent pregnancy.

“Is something the matter dear?” Vivienne asked, obviously noticing the crimson that had bloomed on Lydia’s cheeks. “Is this something you and Cullen have discussed?”

“Well, not exactly,” Lydia admitted. “Sort of. I mean…I have thought about it.” Maker sometimes it was all she could think about, her want for him. It was a hunger, she never knew she had. A craving. A need that only he could satiate that pooled within her core.

She never felt that before. Not even with Asher.

“Have you been with a man before?”

“Does it matter?” Lydia asked, a little too defensively.

“Of course not dear,” Vivienne assured. “Just, when you get to that point, something to keep in mind. But may I offer some advice?”

“Of course.”

“Wait. Play this game, and prolong the dance. Pet him, love him, but wait until the two of you are aching. Wait until it’s unbearable. And then…”

She grinned, reminiscing once more, and Lydia got the idea. She already was aching though, and in truth, she didn’t know if she could stand it any longer. Months of knowing how handsome he was yet not admitting it, coupled with all the kisses and promises he had given her had left her body tingling.

The tingling increased tenfold before he arrived that evening in her quarters, and when he did, as promised, he was sans armor, but with a kettle of tea and a basket of cherry tarts. Purple shadows cast under his eyes, and his beard was a little darker than usual, but otherwise he appeared relaxed, and happy. As the evening turned to night they drank the tea and ate the few cherry tarts that Emmaline made in the kitchens for the two, and sitting on the loveseat near the fire, Lydia laughed as Cullen regaled how apparently Emmaline had suspected the reason Cullen was so down those months ago was because of Lydia.

“Why didn’t we get together sooner?” she wondered,

“I don’t know. Maybe we were only waiting for the right time.” He scooched closer to her, their thighs touching. “This is the right time, right? It feels right?”

“More than anything that’s happened.”

Tentatively he placed his hand on her cheek. He wasn’t wearing his gloves, and that may have been why he was so hesitant. She egged him on, pressing her body closer to let him know his touches were welcome. His hands were calloused on her face, but not unpleasant. No, it was quite the contrary. She loved the feeling of his hands on her flesh. She loved everything about the feeling of him, because it was all so wonderfully Cullen. And his hands, something she began to notice he was self conscious about, well, she loved them too. They were his, and they showed the life he had lived.

“I’m sorry if I ever do something wrong,” he said, hesitation making his voice waver. “This is new to me.”

“Trying, you mean? Relationships?”

He nodded. “Elaine was—”

“We don’t have to talk about the past. Only our future, and the now,” she said.

“You’re right.”

She was so used to seeing him in armor, that in his long sleeved brown tunic and breeches, sitting on her loveseat, he looked almost like a boy. “If I seem unsure,” he began, “It’s because it’s been a long time since I’ve wanted anyone in my life. I’m sorry I’m not very good at this, I only—”

“Let me show you something.”

Standing up, she took his hand and led him to the balcony outside, the one that overlooked the mountains. Stars began to twinkle, the moon a pearl against the dark blue, and she sighed, breathing in the mountain air. She turned to Cullen, equally as enamored with the view as she.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” she asked him. “And look. Now I have someone to share it with.”

“I miss you, when you’re away,” he admitted. “It…it doesn’t feel like home without you.”

“Is this home?”

A kiss to her temple was his answer. He wrapped his arm around her, and the two stood in companionable silence, just happy to be together. Eventually Lydia talked of her family, her mother, and the garden she used to tend by her side in Ostwick. She also spoke of Willa’s baby, and how she hoped to build a future worth fighting for, so that child could grow up in world with no more fighting. In turn Cullen spoke of his brother’s child, and how he hoped the same. He also spoke of Mia, and Lydia laughed when he explained how she now suspected that he was involved with the Inquisitor.

“Tell her she’s right,” Lydia suggested.

“Maker’s breath. She would tease me forever. Just like Rylen, and Josephine, and Leliana, and…”

“I think she would be glad you’re happy.” Lydia said, glancing at his profile. “You are happy, right?”

He kissed the top of her hair. “More than I can possibly say.”

Once again, he found that the words lacked, and he showed her instead, lips seeking, yet gentle. Always he was tentative with her, asking before he gave her his kiss, and she answered back with a demand that he eventually matched, tongue seeking an entrance into her mouth. She continued to give with a passion that set her whole body aflame. Without the armor she could feel the steady rhythm of his heart next to her breasts, the feel of his lean body against her soft flesh, and his hand traveling to the dip of her waist made one thought soar through her mind.

_Everywhere._

She didn’t know if it was he or her that led him back inside, his lips still bestowing her with tiny kisses against her collarbones and neck as the two of them made it back. When the back of her knees hit the bed, she laid herself down, scooching upward as Cullen followed, laying himself next to her. For the first time she felt the feeling of a man over her body, and it was Cullen, and that fact made it all the more wonderful, and perfect. He smelled of the oakmoss and elderflower, and tasted of the sugar from his deserts, mingled with the taste of home. One hand holding her face, the other interlocking her fingers with his, he gave half kisses to the side of her face before kissing her mouth, again and again until she was tingling and dizzy. His hips were pressed into hers, her heat next to his arousal, and by instinct she began to rock her hips, as he rocked his. Everything was fire as the kiss continued, along with the movements they made, and Cullen's lips eventually traveled to her neck, where she moaned at the feel of his bearded face against her flesh. He nipped here and there, tongue laving over the skin as he was careful not to leave marks, and all the while her free hand kneaded his hair, and his neck, and traveled down lower, finding the hem of his shirt.

She wanted more. Everything. Flesh against flesh, pain mingled with pleasure as Cullen moved within her, allowing the flames to dance. She wanted, and she wanted, but…

“Cullen.”

When she said his name, he froze, rising to meet her eyes. She could barely make out the amber in them, his pupils were so dilated, his lust and wanting for her written and apparent. “Do you want…should I?” he asked.

“I…if we go further, I need to take something. In case…”

She didn’t need to go on. His eyes widened a bit when he made the realization. “I…I didn’t…we don’t have to,” he stammered. “We can…”

“I want to,” she said, hand on his cheek. “You should know though I haven’t done this before, and—”

His eyes widened even more, if that was possible. “Wait. You’re…you mean…you and him never…?”

“He wanted to. Something always held me back,” she said. “And it doesn’t matter really. I know I’m kind of old to be a virgin, but—”

“Hush,” Cullen chided, lips pressing against her forehead, cradling her face. “It doesn’t matter. It’s not a contest. Maker’s breath I would have waited had I known I would have met you.”

“Even if that meant waiting until you were thirty?”

He chuckled. “Yes. But really. It doesn’t matter. It really doesn’t.”

She smiled, ever so faintly. “I’m happy you think so,” she said. “I know it doesn’t, but…” Her eyes narrowed. “So. If you said you would have waited, does that mean…?”

“It wasn’t as though I didn’t not enjoy it,” he clarified “It’s only, I felt guilty. It didn’t feel as fulfilling, I suppose. I didn’t love her. She knew it, and that was all right with her, but—oh.” He bit his lip. “I’m sorry. You said no more past.”

“No more past,” she agreed. “At least not tonight.”

He was frozen above her, and though his arousal was still pressed into her, he made the suggestion that maybe they should wait.

“Maybe you’re right.”

Sighing, the two of them rose, sitting side by side on the bed. “Besides,” Lydia began. “Vivienne said to prolong the dance.”

“What?”

“It…never mind. Waiting makes it sweeter, right?”

“I’ve done a lot of things wrong,” Cullen said. “But this. I want this to be right. I want to do this the right way. And if that means taking this slow, and not rushing, then, I think we should.”

“Right,” Lydia agreed. “Slow. Savor it all.”

She tried not to look at his trousers as he spoke. “Perhaps I should…exit?” he asked.

“But I don’t want you to leave yet,” Lydia said.

 “Under the stars then?”

She matched his grin. “Under the stars.”

He rose, taking her hand and leading her back outside. Side by side they stood again, talking of everything and nothing, until eventually Cullen left her with a goodnight kiss, long and lingering, and leaving her hand a poor substitute afterward.

 _Prolong the dance_ , she thought. _Savor it all. Make this right._


	30. Trying

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woowza. Chapter 30. How are you my readers? Still reading and liking?

Summoning the war council was simultaneously the most interesting and exhausting part of Lydia’s day when she was at Skyhold. The map of Ferelden and Orlais lay scattered on a long expansive table, with little pins that marked points of interest. It wasn’t hearing her advisor’s suggestions that tired Lydia, or figuring out what the best course of action was. No, it was being in that room for long periods of time with the conflicting personalities of her advisers. To say Cullen, Josephine and Leliana were only a little different was to say that the attack on Haven was nothing more than a trifle fistfight at the Herald’s Rest.

Obviously, Lydia had grown the closest to Cullen, as all of Skyhold was becoming aware. In the war room however, she was wary of taking his advice, at least initially. Cullen represented the Inquisition’s forces and military, and she had the initial notion that Cullen and his soldiers would always use brute force in their tactics. Yet the more she listened to him, the more she realized how much Cullen really wanted his men to help in any way they could, and he wasn’t below sending his men to work as caravan guards, or sending them to gather supplies for refugees. And ss she had spent more time in the war room with him, she realized that Cullen handled his advice and strategy the same way he lived his life. He made sure each day was spent helping, and he would make sure his men did the same. Sometimes he did suggest force, but only when it was necessary, and usually in these cases, she agreed with him. Perhaps her relationship in the war room with Cullen mirrored her personal relationship with him. At first she had been wary, yet she had grown to trust him, and more. So much more.

As such, she allowed his soldiers to handle more requests. She was at the point now where sending a small army of men to address the concerns of nobles no longer gave her any qualms. She did however, try to utilize each of her three advisers equally. Josephine understood Lydia’s desire to help, and though sometimes she suggested sending aide in the form of diplomacy, most of the time she tried to get Lydia to secure favors to curry more nobles to their side. Lydia detested most of them, but Josephine knew exactly how to work them and appeal to their vanity, and had them all eating out of the palm of her hand. Even though she didn’t personally like the people Josephine was forced to consort with, Lydia wholeheartedly took her advice and sent Josephine’s people to deal with matters as they flooded in. Overall, the Inquisition owed a lot to Josephine Montilyet. They weren’t aided by the chantry, so what coin that was steadily flowing in came from the purses of the nobility that Josephine managed to persuade. Resources couldn’t come from nowhere, as Josephine reminded Lydia, so she tasked her diplomat with sending her people out and securing more contacts. And more contacts meant more money.

And then there was Leliana, who, Lydia was forced to admit, was the adviser whose advice she heeded the least. It took Leliana a lot of coercion to get Lydia to even consider her advice, as even the simplest things, like securing more lyrium from a dubious source took Leliana days of pestering. Lydia still wasn’t comfortable with many things Leliana suggested, but understanding that sometimes, the hardest things were necessary, Lydia took her advice at times when she may not have otherwise. Reluctantly Lydia had become warped into the underworld of smugglers and assassins, knowing why it was necessary, but feeling unclean for knowing the fact that she was now part of it. Once, Leliana snapped at Lydia, saying she would stand in ruins if that meant preserving honor. She even called Lydia naïve on another occasion. Cullen snapped back at her, and told her she wasn’t being fair. Honor was crucial in these times. Sometimes honor was all they had. Leliana quipped right back, demanded to know where was his honor in Kirkwall. And though she apologized, Cullen told her she was right. That’s why it was necessary for him now, to have it as much as possible.

That was months ago, before Adamant. Things had cooled down considerably since then, and though Leliana and Cullen were pleasant to each other, the tension was sometimes all too palpable, which was why Josephine usually found herself in the position of the peacekeeper. If a meeting passed without Josephine stopping a small verbal quarrel between Cullen and Leliana, it was a good day.

Today, so far at least, had been a good day. Leliana brought in her reports of the Red Templars in the Wilds, and how according to her agents, they had been wandering aimlessly, waiting. Same with the Venatori in the Approach. Josephine informed Lydia that their purses were full, and new allies were secured, while Cullen brought in a report from Rylen. They had a few incidents with Red Templars on their way back to Therinfal, but they were there, and looking for more clues as to where the red lyrium originated from.

“Samson must be stopped before we bring our forces to the Wilds,” Cullen said. “If Corypheus loses his general…”

Lydia nodded. “Understood. Is that all for today?”

Josephine looked up from her papers. “There’s something else.”

When Josephine handed Lydia the note, she opened it up. The writing was elegant and grand, the parchment thick and obviously expensive. “Who’s Farris the representative?” Lydia asked, glancing at the fancy script.

“He’s a representative,” Leliana replied.

“Obviously,” Cullen deadpanned.

“He is an excellent contact,” Leliana explained. “His influence reaches all over Thedas.”

“So he’s an ambassador,” Lydia summarized.

“You could say that.”

“Let’s not get into specofics. What’s the overview?”

“Well,” Josephine began. “It’s become evident that the Inquisition has become more than a banding of heathens. That’s been apparent for quite a while, especially with your success at Halamshiral. We have received support from much of the nobility of Ferelden, some from Orlais, as well as other areas. However, Farris is suggesting that we display the full power of the Inquisition, to sway those that still see us as upstarts and heathens that we are more than that.”

“Does this sound like a good idea to you, Ambassador?”

“To be honest, yes,” she replied. “You have proven yourself tenfold. However, you are from Ostwick, and a mage, and...”

“There are also the rumors.”

Lydia raised her eyebrows at Leliana. “Rumors?” she asked her.

“There are always rumors,” Cullen interjected. “It will happen no matter what. The rumors are nothing to worry about Inquisitor. Your works speaks for itself.”

“I would hope that saving the Empire from a demon army, and stopping an assassination speaks for itself,” Lydia said, “then again, the Orlesians will always find something to nitpick.” She turned to Leliana. “No offense.”

Leliana remained steely as ever, Cullen however stifled a chuckle.

“Even so,” Josephine said, returning to her position as the peacekeeper. “Displaying the power of the Inquisition, more specifically, you, may be a great help.”

Lydia nodded. “All right. So we need to decide how we can display ourselves. What do you think Cullen?”

“A grand march,” the commander replied. “It will show your influence and display the strength of our forces.”

“Not a bad idea. What do you propose Josephine?”

“A grand fete, held by you. Invite the nobles to Skyhold. All of them. Ferelden, Orlais, perhaps a few from Nevarra and the Marches. Charm them, as I know you can. I’m afraid many still see you as a mage before they see you as the Inquisitor. If you allow them to meet you, and if we allow them into our home, that would change.”

“You think I’m charming?” Lydia asked.

Josephine smiled. “Of course, my lady.”

“Would I get to wear a nice dress?”

“Only the finest.”

Lydia had a brief flashback one of her mother’s beautiful dresses, and the hours she would take getting ready. Her mother hardly wore makeup and cosmetics, but on these special occasions, Theodosia Trevelyan would. Powders, rouge, and lip paint were expertly applied, and Lydia would watch in awe as she made a new face for herself. It was like an artist, working on a canvas. Her mother’s long dark hair, usually in a braid, would be pinned up elegantly, and if she was feeling whimsical, a red rose would adorn the plaits. To top it all off, she would shimmy into that midnight blue ballgown, the one Lydia looked at with such admiration. For her daughter, her mother would do a twirl, making the fabric look like ripples from the sea. “Someday, my darling,” she would say when Lydia would be left with the nanny, the scent of her jasmine, gardenia and rose perfume lingering behind. “Someday this will be you.”

When the "someday" did come, she was too worried about assassins and dangerous machinations to enjoy the splendor and dancing. This time though, she could. She would.

“What do you suggest, Leliana?” Lydia asked to be polite, though the thoughts of a grand fete with dancing and merriment were already playing in her mind.

“We do nothing of the sort. No display. We simply be where it is most beneficial,” Leliana said.

Lydia made a face. “Well, that’s no fun.”

“Fun, no. Beneficial, yes.”

It was too late. A fete it would be. “Well Josephine,” Lydia began. “Invite as many people as we can, and we are going to make sure that the Inquisition is the grandest thing they have ever seen in their entire lives.”

“It will be done,” Josephine promised, swishing her quill. “It just happens that this party will coincide with the one year anniversary of the Inquisition’s declaration, and I will make sure this will be a night that no one will forget.”

“Good.”

Cullen smiled at her, after Leliana and Josephine filtered out, though the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Is something wrong?” she asked him

“Nothing at all,” he said. “It’ll be fine.”

She remembered the last fete they attended, and what happened, and she wondered how in the Maker’s name she could ever forget.

She put her hands on his breastplate. “Oh Cullen. I’m sorry. I am so sorry. I shouldn’t have went along with this. If any Orlesians gang up on you again—”

“I’ll be fine,” he assured, holding her close. “Really. I can’t avoid parties forever.”

“I’m so sorry,” she said again.

“Really. I’ll be fine,” he promised. “I’ll have you. You’ll be there.”

Sweeter than ever were his lips when he kissed her.

 

* * *

 

It was official. The Inquisition was to have a grand fete, to commemorate the Inquisition’s good works, in an effort to bring unity to Ferelden and Orlais, as well as to hopefully continue to fill the Inquisition’s purses. Invitations were being sent, and the ball would be in precisely three weeks.

Lydia was training with Cassandra the next morning, hurling pieces of the fade at training dummies in the courtyard while Cassandra hit her sword with the others. “I am not wearing a dress,” Cassandra exclaimed, punctuating every word with a strike at the dummy when matters drifted toward the fete. The two discussed a myriad of things, from Cassandra’s recent findings with the Seekers, to the Mage and Templar War, and to Cassandra and Leliana turning into candidates for the next Divine. Thankfully topics had moved to lighter matters, as Lydia wasn’t sure she could handle anything else that was heavy for the day. She just wanted the plan this fete, while praying Rylen and the others managed a victory and found a lead on Samson, wear a pretty dress, be with her friends, and dance with Cullen.

“What’s wrong with a dress?” Lydia asked, a little defensive. In fact she would picked a dress to wear that morning had she not planned on training—mostly because Cullen was more than a little fond of her in dresses. “You would like nice in a red dress.”

“I haven’t worn one in years,” Cassandra replied.

“If you become Divine you would have to wear one all the time. Along with a hat.”

“I never looked good in hats.”

Lydia set her staff down. “Cassandra, be honest. Is that something you want?”

“The chantry must change, and if called upon, I will accept.”

Lydia didn’t know how to answer. Her own religious beliefs were muddled enough as it was. She didn’t disbelieve in the Maker, but she saw the way that others believed. She didn’t know if she wanted to be part of that. She had spent her whole staring at a divide she wasn’t sure she could ever break.

“Nothing is decided yet,” Cassandra surmised. “We shall see.”

“Inquisitor.”

One of Leliana’s people greeted Lydia, and informed her that the spymaster was waiting in her rookery, wanting to speak to her. Thinking it must be about the fete, Lydia made her way over, glancing at Varric’s usual spot before she did, and feeling a pang of sorrow when he wasn’t there. It had been a while since Adamant, and he hadn’t written back yet.

She missed that dwarf. But when she thought about what he was going through…how broken he was…

It wasn’t her fault. Still…

“Ah, Inquisitor. There is something we need to talk about,” Leliana said as Lydia walked into her rookery, trying to forget her previous thoughts. She motioned for Lydia to sit down at one of chairs near her desk, where her documents were neatly piled. This was a stark contrast to Cullen’s desk, which was always in constant disarray from war reports and maps, and various books he picked up and tried to read. By nature Cullen was neat, he had told her stories of the messes often made in the templar barracks in Kirkwall and Ferelden, and how he often tried to clean up the spills and messes. He told her though that every time he tried to clean up his desk, he would be bombarded again. Eventually he gave it up. Leliana however, had a very orderly desk, and it occurred to Lydia that the reason for that was because her reports were likely locked away in secret.

“Is something wrong?” Lydia asked, sitting adjacent from Leliana.

Leliana didn’t sit. “No.”

But she sighed, her usual cool demeanor wavering.

“What is it Leliana?” Lydia asked, taking a deep breath.

“This is not an easy thing to bring up, but…”

“Bring it up.”

She figured it had something to do with the “rumors” Leliana brought up at the meeting the previous day, and when the situation was explained, Lydia was more annoyed than anything else. Leliana and Josephine were aware of the “incident” that happened in Ostwick while Lydia was still at the Circle, but they were unsure of what the incident was, due to the fact that by nature, the Ostwick Circle had always been very tightlipped about their affairs. However, after Adamant and after Halamshiral, a renewed interest was piqued about Lydia and her past. Lydia was annoyed more than anything, because now, she was seen as a powerful figurehead and leader. Only now was every minute detail about her past relevant, and only now was the “incident” made aware of, by some circles of nobility.

“I do not know what happened or what occurred,” Leliana said. “That is your business. And from what I have gathered, no one does know, though they know something happened. But Cullen was right, back at Haven when he said it was your deeds that mattered. But—"

“He did say that?” She felt a wave of tenderness. Even back then, he cared.

“Yes,” Leliana said. “But you must know that there are speculations. Some of them are…”

Lydia shook her head before Leliana could go on. She heard it all before. The mage whore at Ostwick, and the instigator who ensorcelled a hapless templar, even though Asher wasn’t innocent either. “The rumors are wrong,” Lydia said. “I don’t know, or care what they are saying, but they are wrong, and they have no right.”

“I agree, but people will always talk. Now with renewed interest. Josephine is doing her best to quell rumors, but it is something you should know, with the fete on the horizon.”  
Leliana wasn’t saying anything else, but Lydia suspected she wanted to say more, and she had an inkling about what it was about. “Let me guess,” Lydia said. “My relationship with the commander is exacerbating these rumors.”

“It has been a topic of discussion. The way you two behaved at the Winter Palace did not go unnoticed. That hasn’t stopped the marriages proposals for him from coming in, however.”

“Lovely.”

“There is one more thing. A letter from your father.”

She felt the blood drain from her face. “Oh,” she managed, trying very hard not to bite the inside of her mouth, clench her fist, or run from the room. “Did you now?”

Now, Leliana sat adjacent from Lydia. “He wants to know why you never replied to him.”

“I was busy.”

“He has sent five letters.”

Three of which were sent in the time since the Winter Palace, because her father only really wanted to talk to her when she had proved that she was a competent leader.

“Leliana,” Lydia began, holding back half of her impassions. “My father didn’t care about me at all when I was in the Circle. Now, only that I have made something of myself does he want to build a relationship, and that’s only because he thinks he can benefit from the Inquisition. That is all. I have no desire to speak with him, or write to him, or anything.”

“He is already on his way.”

“Leli—”

“I am sorry, but—”

Everything was soundless, save for the ringing in her ear, and the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. What was Leliana saying? Something about there was really nothing they could do, he had already decided he was going to come, and Josephine couldn’t turn him away now when he was on his way. Lydia wasn’t really hearing any of that.

She only heard what he said, that day she came back home. But it wasn’t home. He had made it that way.

Leliana tried to apologize. “Lydia, wait…I’m sorry, I—”

There was nothing else she wanted to hear.

 

* * *

 

 

He tapped on the door a few times before calling her name. “Lydia?”

No answer.

He knocked again, louder. “Lydia? Lyd?”

Again, no response. “Dearest?” he called.

He thought he could hear her shuffling, once again lost at the mention of his term of endearment for her, and after a moment, the door was open. “Cullen,” she greeted, the smile only somewhat forced. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize.”

She exhaled, before motioning for him to come in. Leliana informed him of what happened, and this was only after Lydia was apparently nowhere to be found in Skyhold. The one place they didn’t seem to think to check was her quarters, which was the first place Cullen went after undoing his armor. Perhaps it was because Lydia wasn’t known for locking herself in her quarters when the sun was still out, though now it was early night. But Lydia wasn’t one to waste daylight. If she wasn’t with the advisers, she was with her companions, or training, or riding, or in her garden. If the sun was up, she was up.

Cullen stepped into the room, idly watching her as she stared at the fire burning, arms crossed. She must have had a bath, as her hair was damp, and she smelled faintly of rosewater. She was also wearing a nightgown, pale blue in color, that hit her ankles and left her tanned shoulders uncovered. The silk fabric would feel soft against his bare palms, and making it even more apparent how rough his hands were. Rough against her nightdress, and her flesh. He didn’t think of that as he made his way closer, and he felt relief when at last she acknowledged his presence again, and snaked her arms around his neck. And even though his hands were rough, and sullied, he placed his hands on her hips in turn. He touched her before, he reminded himself, and he held her close. She didn’t care then, and she didn’t care now.

How he wanted never to see this woman hurt, especially over something like this.

“You look like you want to say something,” she noted as they stood together by the fire. “I suppose Leliana told you what happened?”

He nodded, solemn. “I wish there was something I could do.”

“Can you tell my father he’s not wanted here?” she asked, removing herself from him and padding over to her desk. A wine bottle was there, an Orlesian red, and picking it up, she took a swig, not bothering to pour it into a glass.

“Perhaps things will turn out all right,” he said, intending to soothe.

“Perhaps it won’t.”

His eyes narrowed. “Lydia.”

“Cullen,” she said, mirroring his tone. She took another swig of wine, this time a longer one, and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand afterward. The bottle empty, she unceremoniously tossed it in the waste bin near her desk, the glass shattering. “How?” she asked, completely defeated. “How can this ever turn out all right? He turned me out of my home when my mother died. He had nothing to lose, the Circle had already fallen. But he made me go back to that fucking place. And he knew I was hated there. He knew that they all called me a whore, even though it was Asher’s fucking fault too. Of course, no one bloody cared about that. It’s always the woman right? Always the mage whose responsible for stringing along a hapless templar.” She closed her eyes, not wanting to remember. He knew. He did the same thing, when he didn’t want to remember.

“I don’t want to see him again Cullen,” Lydia said, without a single ounce of regret.

Cullen wondered. What would he do, if he saw Trevelyan? Hold back a litany of curses, for one. Perhaps not even. Tell him he let the most wonderful thing in the world slip from his fingers. Try not to hit him.

But, he was her father.

Cullen took a deep breath. “He is your family,” he said. “Perhaps—"

“How dare you.”

Everything stilled. “What?”

“How dare you say that,” she spat. “How dare you say, ‘he’s my family,’ like that means something. It doesn’t mean a damn thing.”

“But for better or worse, it does mean something,” Cullen insisted, with damnable persistence when part of him thought he should have just dropped it. But he believed in family. He had to. When everything was falling apart, he knew he still had his family, somewhere, even if he couldn't be part of it. “Our family is—”

“No. You aren’t going to suggest I try to make this work.” She rushed toward him. “Cullen, you love your family. Your family never hurt you like my father did.”

He put his hands on her arms, trying to calm her. “Lydia,” he said, but she recoiled from his touch.

Reeling, he backed away. “No,” he admitted. “They didn’t. But—"

“Yes. I know, I know.” She waved her hand dismissively. “The Chant of Light says respect thy mother and thy father. I’m not an imbecile. I heard it too. And yes, I respect my mother. Andraste’s blood, I still love her even though she lied to me. But Cullen, I am not going to respect my father. I am not going to respect the man who turned me away at my mother’s funeral, and said it would have been better if I was made tranquil.”

Andraste. Maker. He couldn’t believe…

When was the last time he was this disgusted at someone?

“Lydia,” Cullen pleaded. “I didn’t mean—all I wanted to say was…”

“You were trying to tell me that because he’s my father, and he’s coming anyway, so I should make this work. And who knows, maybe it won’t be so bad. Well. It’s bad already. It’s been bad. He didn’t want me when I was useless to him. He would rather have had me completely placid, and without anything at all. Oh, don’t look so horrified!” she snapped, suddenly at him. “You would have thought the same thing? Wanting me tranquil? Wouldn’t you…wouldn’t you…”

“I would never have thought that,” he stated. “Even back then. Never.” 

“And everyone else that wasn’t me?”

“Never.”

Silent tears fell from her cheeks. Cullen brushed them away with his rough fingertips, ill-suited for comforting. But they were his, and it was what he had. Just as the he that he was now was all he had, but he would give it to her, because he told her, he would try. Even through this. Even when he doubted, and Maker, sometimes he doubted. But he promised. He would try.

“Lydia,” he murmured, taking her hand. Her marked hand.

“I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m sorry Cullen. I…I don’t want to hurt you at all, I shouldn’t say these things. Please forgive me. I—”

“Shh,” he soothed, pressing a kiss to her palm. “I’m sorry I upset you.”

“Cullen. Hurting you is the last thing I want. I’m sorry if I said something inane and stupid. I—” she sighed. “I guess knowing he’s going to be here brought out the worst in me.”

“I understand,” he said. “And I’m sorry too. So…so…so…sorry…”

He punctuated every word with a soft kiss to her face. On her cheeks, her forehead, against the tears as they fell, less so now.

“I shouldn’t drink,” she said. “I do stupid things when I drink, like jump into puddles in Circle robes, and shout at people I care about.”

His chuckle was soft, his hand in her hair, detangling it with his fingers. “Fuck your father,” he blurted.

She laughed as she embraced him, eventually burying her head in his chest. He only held her, the last few of her tears escaping. It occurred to him that this was the third time that he held as she cried. He didn’t like her to be like this. Not Lydia, who was beautiful when she smiled. Radiant, like the sun. Lydia, who the Maker had already put through so much. She deserved to smile, any chance she had.

He was reminded of what his mother would do, when he was a boy.

“You know,” Cullen began, Lydia blinking at him. “Sometimes my mother would sing to me when I was upset. And sometimes when Rosalie was upset I would do the same thing.”

“Really?” she asked, and this time, the smile on her face was natural, and real.

“Yes, really,” he said, matching it. “But please don’t tell anyone. The others in the templar barracks used to make fun of me for it.”

“Well. They were stupid,” Lydia said plainly. “Only fools can’t appreciate someone who knows when songs are the best cure.”

She grinned at him. Slyly. Conspiratorially.

“Oh. Maker,” he murmured, realizing. “You want me to sing, don’t you?”

“…please?”

He couldn’t resist her grin, or her eyes, or anything about her. So when she rested her head against him, arms around his neck, he wrapped his arms around her waist, and swayed her as he began to sing the same song his mother sang to him. In turn, it was the same song that his father often sang, about how just as rivers would flow to the sea, some things in life, were supposed to be.

“I love your voice,” she murmured softly, when he began to hum. “It’s perfect.”

“There’s nothing about me that’s perfect,” he said.

“Neither am I. But this is. Right now.”

Andraste. It was. It really was.

“Stay with me tonight,” she said. “I don’t think I can…you know. Not after today. But I don’t want to be alone.”

He kissed the top of her forehead. “I don’t want to be alone either.”

Her bed was warm and expansive, and even though there was plenty of space for him to remain two arms lengths away from her, she still pressed herself closer to him, an arm around his chest, and one leg hooked over is. He had never done this before—hold a woman like this, in a bed with no intimacy between them. Then it occurred it him that this was being intimate really was, sharing himself, the way he never would with another. Being there, for her. Trying.

“I’m sorry I yelled again,” she said, before she drifted to the fade. “My father brings out the worst in me without even being here.”

“Some people can do that.”

Her fingertips lightly traced the open collar of his shirt, the pads warm against the bare skin. “I think you’re a good man, you know,” she said.

“I know.” And that was enough. All he needed.

“I guess they never said trying was easy.”

“No,” he agreed. “But it’s worth it.”

“Even after I…?”

“Even so,” he promised.

“Please don’t leave me.”

“Never,” he said. “I promise.” Always.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song he sings was "Can't help falling in love," by Elvis. I imagine Thedas as an equivalent to that song :p 
> 
> As always, thank you for reading :)


	31. Reunions

_Cullen. I’m with Cullen._

It was the first thing on her mind when her eyes fluttered open. Sometime during the night she must have turned away from him, and when she turned back over, she was surprised to see that he was already up. Hands resting on his stomach, he smiled in greeting, and she knew there was never a morning that compared to this morning.

She moved closer to him. “You stayed,” she said, dreamily.

“Of course I stayed.”

Tentatively, she brought her hand to his face, brushing the stubble that she loved feeling so much. It was getting darker than usual. Softer, and less prickly than it had been when it was growing out.

“Are you feeling better?” he asked, turning to his side.

“A bit.”

He reached his hand out, and placed it on her hip He had done it many times before, hold onto her hips, and always did it feel intimate and safe. Yet now, laying in her bed after staying with her all night, there was something else to it. Something she wanted more of.

“Lydia. I was thinking. I should leave. People will see, and—"

“Shhh.” She didn’t want to think of anything other than the fact that they were together. Not the inevitable rumor mill that would no doubt circulate when a disheveled Commander Cullen walked out of her room, and certainly not the events that transpired that led him to her bed. “It’s still early,” she said. “We can stay here a little longer. Can’t we?”

His answer was to smooth her tangled hair away from her face, and press a kiss to her forehead. He seemed to not want to be so bold, to wrap his arms around her and press her body into him, and he would simply content himself with merely holding her, and looking at her as the early morning sunlight streamed through the open balconies. Perhaps this was more intimate than the act of making love, Lydia thought, to see him like this. Still with sleep in his eyes, and with hair tousled and in disarray. To see him before he allowed others to see him.

Holding each other became kissing each other, laying side by side as legs became entwined and hands searched until finger were grasping into hair. This was different from many of their meetings, were the kisses were rushed in an effort to have as much of each other in the little time they had between their stolen moments. This however, was slower, and gradually he grew bolder, not afraid to slowly explore and savor every gentle slope of her neck, or move the strap of her nightgown away when it prevented him for further doting kisses along every expanse of exposed skin. He carefully kissed her scar on her shoulder, the one she received in the twisted future she stopped. The future where he was no longer alive. The remembrances made her kiss him all the harder, press her body further into his, as proof that he was here. He was here, and he would not leave.

It was then that a surprised, but delighted cry escaped her lips as gently, Cullen nudged her to her back. His body over hers, she did nothing to hide how much she loved this, this feeling of having him on top of her, enveloping her. Lips lingered on her neck, as fingers wrapped and twisted in his hair, before they traveled to grip his shoulders and back. Even through the fabric of his tunic she could feel the strength. The sinews of his shoulders, his ropey back, his hips that were against hers, moving and rocking against the juncture of her hip. More, more…

She heard Vivienne’s words in her mind, like an echo. _The dance. Prolong the dance._

_Forget the dance, dolt._

“I don’t want to wait,” she said. “Cullen. Please. Please.”

His lips wandered, kissing the tops of her breast that the nightgown didn’t cover. The thing was out of place, awkward and clumsy in what they were doing, right along with his tunic and breeches. He hummed, his response to her wandering hands on his hips, gripping. Wanting more, needing more, hands finding the seam of his tunic, and—

“ _Stop_.”

Something in his tone, something she distinctly registered as fear yanked her right out of her dreamlike stance.

His eyes. She looked into them, and they were filled with fear.

She could do nothing but remain frozen. “I’ve stopped,” she said, “What’s the matter?”

He was stiff in her arms, not looking directly at her. “Cullen? Did I do something?”

“No,” he said quickly, still not looking. “I only—I don’t think we should do this yet. Not now. That’s all.”

Yet there was more. “Please tell me what’s wrong.”

He was turning a crimson she didn’t think he could turn, eyes closing in a shame she didn’t understand. Sighing, she only began to finger comb his tangled waves, his hair growing out since the fresh trim he received before the ball. He kept it a bit longer than many men she knew, likely because it was easier to style in that swept back way he preferred when there was extra length. She was glad of it, she admitted to herself. She was even more glad for the extra length now, as there were more curls to run her fingers through.

He had a sensitive scalp, and he hummed, eventually resting his forehead against hers. “It’s you…” he said softly. “Maker…it’s you.”

“It’s me,” she said, still not understanding, but holding him either way.

“Lydia,” he mumbled. “I’m so sorry.”

Why was he sorry? Why did…

“Cullen. Did something happen to you before?”

There was a pause. “No. It’s nothing. I promise. I promise it’s nothing.”

She wasn’t sure if she should believe, but she knew for a fact, that she should not continue this discussion. So she turned it to a different direction. “Do you want to wait until you sweep me off my feet? Take me someplace romantic?” she teased.

He chuckled. “Yes. That’s exactly what I’m going to do. Thanks for spoiling it.”

She kissed his hair. “Well. I fully expect to be swept off my feet, when the time comes.”

Their kisses were filled with laughter, and it was followed with even more kisses before Lydia rose from the bed. Cullen soon followed, his arms wrapped around her waist as she took her comb and untangled her hair. More kisses lined her shoulders, sending her into pleasant frissons. She loved being held like this, loved the way his lips felt on her body.

“The longer I stay, the more people will see,” he said. "But if you need me, you know where I'll be."

“Always so concerned with decorum.” She giggled. “You know, people already know about us. They probably already think we’re ravishing each other senseless.”

“Well, so long as people have something to talk about,” he said, before sighing, and taking her hand, and it was then that she sensed he was going to talk about something more serious.

She was right. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” he told her.

“I know,” she replied. Thinking about her father again was making everything much more muddled than it had been before. “But…”

“But what?”

“Sometimes I wish I was just his little girl,” she revealed. “He loved me then, before my magic.”

Cullen knew when kisses were better than words. And when he knew she was all right, he parted with one last long and lingering kiss, promising they would talk later, if she wished. When he was gone, Lydia contemplated how the man who said he was not very good at love and romance could be this good at love and romance, even if he was as unsure as he said he was sometimes. Perhaps that was why he wanted to wait, and why he stopped her wandering hands.

Unless he was ashamed of something.

It may have been the chantry’s doing. She remembered the sisters in the Ostwick Circle, and the pesters about modesty between the sexes. She also remembered the speeches about the matters of pleasure. There was a reason why mage robes and templar uniforms were the worst things in existence.

Yet there was fear. She saw it, clear as day.

Why was there fear?

He was trying, she reminded herself. That was enough. She had to trust that one day, he would tell her, and give her his winter. She had to trust that. She had to. She had to let him be the one to give.

After she was dressed she bounded down the stairs through the great hall, planning on eating before she went about the business for the day. She was however, stopped on her way out, the hand on her shoulder startling her.

“I am sorry Lady Inquisitor,” Mother Giselle said. “There is something I must speak with you about.”

“What about?” Lydia asked, hoping no one else saw the Inquisitor un-heroically jumping at the chantry mother.

By the frown, Lydia could tell it wasn’t good. “It’s about the Tevinter, Dorian.”

 

* * *

 

Lydia didn’t give the reason for her departure to the Hinterlands, but she told Cullen it was important, and it couldn’t be put off. Josephine and Leliana were not impressed with the matter, and in turn, Cullen let them know he wasn’t impressed with how they handled the matter of Lydia’s father. He suggested having soldiers meet him when he arrived at Gwaren, so he could promptly be sent back to Ostwick. But, eventually, after some bickering, they all agreed and came to the consensus that they should wait until Lydia came back and see what she said about it, now that she had some time to think.

That was five days ago. He wrote her a letter, the prose of which laid somewhere between a love letter and a business letter, and she wrote back that things were all right, she had taken down a dragon, and she should expect him by today. Cullen had to admit he wasn’t too pleased with the dragon, and he would have liked to say the palpations were only somewhat, but he reminded himself that she conquered a nightmare demon, an avalanche, and many things that were arguably much worse. Or at least that’s what Leliana said.

He tried not to think about Lydia too hard. During the day it wasn’t so bad, as he had men to oversee, and training to supervise. More so since Rylen was still gone. At night however, it was more difficult. Sleep alluded him, perhaps more so now since he had already shared a bed with her. And with what little sleep he had, he woke up shaking and in a cold sweat. He should have been thankful this didn’t happen when he was Lydia. What would she have said and done?

She was so close to having him laid bare before her eyes. She would have seen his scars. Every one. The ones he shouldn’t have received, and the ones he was more ashamed of than others. He didn’t know what she would think, when the time came. If the time came.

Maker. Andraste. What if they tried again, and he remembered again? Would he always remembered? He didn’t before, not with Elaine. At least, not after the first few times. She was patient with him, he had come to realize. Of course Lydia would be too. Lydia understood. But she shouldn’t have to.

Why couldn’t he just be a man? But if he remembered, and he told her, and she couldn’t accept…

He clenched his fist. He prayed it wouldn’t come to that. Please Maker, do not let it…

“I have a note for you Commander. It’s from your sister.”

The thoughts dissipated somewhat, but not entirely, as Cullen turned from the bookshelves to the messenger. Jim was his name, and he handled correspondences and such between the advisers.

Excitement mounted. “Really?” he asked, taking the letter. Branson’s child was due to arrive soon. Perhaps it had happened. Skimming the letter however proved that it didn’t, though as Mia reminded him, they would be sure to let him know.

 _You’re very happy, I’ve noticed_ , the end of the letter said. _It’s the Inquisitor isn’t it?_

“Is something wrong Commander? Why are you turning so red?”

“I am not,” Cullen stammered, regaining his wits. “No. Not at all.”

Jim didn’t look convinced. And for some reason or other, he wasn’t leaving.

Cullen prodded him. “Is there anything else?”

Jim kicked at the ground. “Well, a man arrived earlier. Noble. He seemed a little grumpy.”

“A man arrived earlier, and he seemed grumpy?” Cullen wasn’t sure why Jim was telling him this, as Josephine oversaw these matters. “Have you told Josephine? Does she know?”

“She knows. She was showing him around.”

“Then why are you telling me?”

“Josephine is being too nice to him. He walked into the keep and thought he could tell us what to do. Came in here in a carriage expecting us to roll out a carpet for him.”

Cullen raised his brows. “Orlesian?”

“Didn’t speak like an Orlesian. Not sure where he came from. He had crest though, on his coat. A horse.”

“A horse?”

“Yes Commander.”

House Trevelyan’s crest was a horse, but surely there was another noble family who had the same crest. It couldn’t have been Trevelyan. Not yet. They had learned he was coming not too long ago. He couldn’t have arrived.

Well, he very well could have. Maker, he hoped not. Hoped…

“Commander, where are you going?”

Josephine was aghast when he entered her office. “Cullen!” she exclaimed, “I would like you to meet—"

“Bann Trevelyan.”

He turned award, toward Cullen. There was no warmth in his eyes. No nothing.

It was all too eerie, but Cullen remained, and asked, demanded, “What are you doing here?”

Trevelyan remained stoic, lips tight. “What am I doing here?” he repeated, hands on his hips. “I’m here to see my daughter.”

 

* * *

 

Dorian was quiet afterward.

He wouldn’t speak of what happened in the tavern with his father as they made camp that night after it happened, but the next day, when Bull mentioned the dragon that was swooping around Lady Shayna’s Valley, he was focused as ever, and helped Lydia and her companions take down another dragon. He even shared a pint with Bull afterward. But when it came to discussing what has transpired, he said nothing until their last night in the Hinterlands, when he was alone with Lydia by the campfire anyway. And Lydia told him what she always knew. She told him how brave he was.

His brows furrowed, bewildered. “Brave?”

“It’s not easy to walk your own path Dorian. But you have. And now you’re here, with the Inquisition And you are one of my dearest—"

His arm were around her, bringing her close, like a brother would. “Lydia, Lydia, Lydia,” he chanted. “I wouldn’t trade being here for anything.”

“There’s no one else I would want by my side.”

“Except Cullen?”

She laughed. “Well, Cullen’s a given.”

He became quiet, before he asked her softly, “Did you know about me?”

“I suppose,” she admitted. “Honestly Dorian, who people like to sleep with isn’t something I consciously think about.”

“But it really never mattered to you?”

She grinned. “You know, you stole my heart that day in Redcliffe. After ‘don’t worry, I’ll protect you,’ I was done for.”

He chuckled. “I have precious few friends, you know,” he said.

“Am I one of them?”

“I thought that went without saying.”

She felt the pang then, the pang of the startling truth. She must have stiffened, as he peered at her, asking what was wrong.

“Dorian,” she said. “I’m a hypocrite.”

At his expression, she told him the full truth of it. What happened with her father, what he did, what he said, and how he was on his way to Skyhold, and she wanted to do everything in her power to avoid him.

“You aren’t obligated to talk to him, if you don’t want to,” Dorian replied.

“But I told you that you should hear your father out in the tavern,” she protested. “I told you that, but when I think about hearing my father out, I want…ugh…” She wrapped her arms around herself. “I want to believe he wants to make amends, but…”

His hand was around her again. “Lydia…”

“He taught me how to dance, you know,” she reminisced. “I suppose you could even say he loved me. I wonder if he still did, when I was in the Circle, or if I was nothing to him. Maybe he loved his legacy more than he did me, and when he knew I couldn’t carry it on…” she closed her eyes. “I don’t think I can forgive him.”

“I don’t think forgiveness is about absolving anyone for what they did,” Dorian admitted. “It’s more about you, not letting it take control of you anymore.”

“It still does take control.” She was forced to admit as much. “I don’t know when it won’t. I don’t know anything, not really. Except for a few things, of course. Like you’re my friend. The Inquisition is helping, and I want—”

She didn’t need to continue, because Dorian smiled that knowing smile of his. “Cullen,” he said.

She nodded. “Cullen.”

Maker. She really wanted Cullen, right then. She wanted to be in his arms, and she wanted him to tell her what she should do. She wanted to hear him sing to her again.  
She still couldn’t believe she got him to do that. But he did it, for her. And that said more than him making love to her would. Though she still really wanted to make love to him. That would be very…very.

“Out of this big confusing mess that happened with my father and your father, there is something I learned for sure,” she said.

Once again, there was that knowing smile. “Tell him,” he told her. “Tell him when you see him.”

On the way back to Skyhold it was all she could think about. Running to his arms, kissing him senseless, and not caring who saw or who heard. When they made it back, Skyhold cheering the victory with the dragon, he was there at the steps. There would never be a time when he didn’t take her breath away. Her Cullen, made of honey and gold.  
She ran into his arms, and he caught her like he always did and always would. “I miss you,” she said, as he kissed her forehead. “Cullen. I’ve wanted to tell you that—”  
His grip on her tightened, stopping her speech. There was something about the way he was holding her that let her know that he meant to shield her, and protect her. “Dearest. There’s…”

“Lydia.”

The voice. Hard edges apparent. Commanding and resounding. Nothing she wanted to hear.

He was here. He was here, and she wanted to run.

But she didn’t run, and for the first time since he turned her aside, Lydia looked at her father.

She would never be ready. She knew, but she began.

 

* * *

 

 “I suspected,” Bann Maksim Trevelyan scoffed at the two of them, a witness to the entire thing. Cullen had hoped he wouldn’t come running down along with he and Josephine when Lydia and the others arrived, but he should have known that wasn’t going to happen.The man had made it much sooner than was to be expected, after all. He was the type that liked sticking himself in other’s business.

“This? Really?” He continued, looking between Cullen and Lydia. “Was he the one that kept you from writing? Was he—”

“I make my own decisions,” she snapped.

Cullen knew a few things about Trevelyan, but he also had perplexed Cullen from the moment he laid eyes on him. Many places in the Free Marches were varied, as the Marches had always been a conglomeration of many nations, but the people had created their own status quo, and something that had distinctly become their own culture, removed from wherever their place of origin was. It was one of the many reasons Cullen never felt at home in Kirkwall. Something remained in him that was distinctly Ferelden. And while he had picked up early on that Lydia had carried that certain identity he had come to expect from a Free Marcher, (Light, airy, taking things as they come, determined, but with shades of stubbornness likely given to her from her Ferelden mother.) Trevelyan held none of that. Cassandra admitted once in a moment of confidence in Kirkwall before they left for Ferelden that many Nevarrans were too severe, dark even, and too consumed in their goals that they saw nothing else. She admitted some of it in herself, but it was much more so in her family. Except for her brother. Trevelyan then must have been distinctly Nevarran, as the severity and the harshness was all Cullen saw. Lydia held none of that, so even though he could see where Trevelyan might be her father, from the complexion, to the same color hair, to perhaps the shaping of the nose and upward flex of the brow, he saw none of Lydia in Trevelyan. Or none of him in her.

He had brown eyes, but there were not warm. They too had that same look of calculation and severity, and he hadn’t stopped scrutinizing anything since he arrived at Skyhold, Cullen especially.

“Another templar,” Trevelyan said to the two of them.

Cullen flared, disgusted and appalled. The rage that had been accumulating since he arrived almost to the tipping point. He clenched his fist, demanded what gave him the right to speak to him or Lydia like that, but she placed her hand on his chest, attempting to quell him.

“It’s all right Cullen,” she said, though her other hand that had remained on his forearm tightened.

“No it’s not,” Cullen said through gritted teeth, also noticing the soldiers that had pocketed around, coming to see the show. The fun never ended in Skyhold. “Why are you even here?”

“We mean, we didn’t have time to prepare for your arrival. It’s what I was trying to tell you in my office,” Josephine said, running over to the huddle, passing the pockets of soldiers. “We would have sent messengers to Gwaren to escort you to Skyhold, but—”

“Why are you here?”

At Cullen’s demand, Trevelyan only briefly recoiled, before straightening himself again. “As I have said,” he said, irritably calm. “I have come to see my daughter. Now. Lydia. May we speak someplace where there is no one else?”

This man was nothing to the Inquisition, and yet his voice was so commanding, so severe, that the small crowd of people began to disperse. Even Bull, Cassandra and Dorian dispersed, who had been behind Lydia the entire time, though Cullen could tell that they had no intention of leaving the area.

“I’ll have a meal prepared, and we can all dine in the great hall later,” Josephine exclaimed. “I am sure the Inquisitor would like to relax for a bit. Freshen up, right?”

“I’m not hungry,” Lydia said, and strangely that was what startled Cullen more than anything. She was always hungry when she came home.

Trevelyan looked at his feet. “Lydia,” he began, somewhat softer. “I wanted to speak with you. Why do you think I’ve come all this way?”

Cullen didn’t really realize he hadn’t let go of Lydia since she first flew into his arms, but when she removed herself from him, he felt empty without the press of her near him. But she removed herself, and looked straight into her father’s eyes. “Father,” she said, the name sounding like a curse on her lips, “do you want me to forgive you?”

He too, looked into her eyes, and there was the barest hint of hesitation, and eeriness.

Her mother. He was seeing her mother’s eyes.

“If you would have read my letters,” Trevelyan began, pushing through it, “you would have known. I have asked for your forgiveness countless times.”

“And that’s only because of where I’m at now, isn’t it?”

There was a pause, before the reply. “No.”

She twisted through her braid, looking to the ground. “Forgive me,” she muttered. No one tried to stop her as she ascended the stairs to the upper courtyard, defeated and hopeless. Cullen too felt the same defeat, his desire to hurt, scream and shout at Trevelyan dissipating, replaced with the same sense of detachment Lydia had. It was only when he heard Josephine speak of rooms and staying the night that he was brought back to reality.

“You can’t stay here.”

Josephine’s eyes widened, scandalized. “Cullen—”

“She doesn’t want him here,” he said plainly, before turning his attention back to Trevelyan. “You—"

“May we speak in private?”

He didn’t see how it would help, but he agreed with a stiff “Fine,” leading him to his office, as he was unsure of where else to go. The walk seemed longer than it ever had before, but once they were inside and the door was closed, Cullen stood behind his desk, making that his barrier between him and Trevelyan. The man didn’t say anything for a few moments, observing Cullen’s office space, right down to the ladder, and upward at the crawlspace where his room was. It must have been nothing like what Trevelyan had in Ostwick.

“I heard a lot about you, you know,” Trevelyan said, glancing back from the crawlspace.

Cullen wasn’t expecting that to be the conversation opener. “How so?” he couldn’t help but ask.

“In Kirkwall. You did a lot of good for that city.”

“They’re still rebuilding.”

“I am aware.”

Trevelyan shifted, also shifting the topic. “I suppose you know, what went on,” he muttered.

Cullen straightened. “I do.”

“I didn’t have a choice.”

“You did,” Cullen said, unwavering. “And you turned her aside.”

“You don’t understand. In the Circle, she threw herself at that templar, and—”

It was a pathetic justification. “She didn’t throw herself on him,” Cullen hissed. “He threw himself on her. He was in a position of power and he used to take advantage of her. Don’t you dare try to explain why you were right.”

“You were a templar. You above all should have understood that mages cannot—”

“She’s more than a mage. She’s your daughter.”

“You’re right.”

He said it, but Cullen didn’t think he could believe.

“She is my daughter,” Trevelyan said. “And all I ask is to stay for a while.”

“That’s not my decision.”

“I know that,” he replied. “I am asking you to ask her.”

Once more, Cullen didn’t reply.

“All I ask, is you go to Lydia, and tell her I wish to stay,” Trevelyan said, begged even. “When I wrote to the ambassador, I told her I planned to stay until after the fete the Inquisition is having.”

“And if she does not want you here?”

“I wish for us to amend,” Trevelyan said. “Nothing more.”

And yet, Cullen didn’t think that was all.

 

* * *

 

Armor removed, he came to her by the garden in the evening.

“You must have a sense somewhere, knowing where I’ll always be,” Lydia said to him, his hand on her back. “Is it a templar secret?”

“I don’t think so,” Cullen said. “I think it’s something else.”

“Like what?”

“Dorian told me he saw you here.”

“Oh.”

He did though, manage to show her is other sense, the knowing of when words were meaningless, and holding her was enough. After he held her for a while, he kissed the top of her head and asked her if she had anything to eat.

“I’m not hungry.”

“I don’t believe that for one minute. Come on.”

He led her to the kitchens, were Emmaline was waiting with freshly baked cherry tarts and small butter cakes. “Dearie,” she said when she came in, embracing Lydia and kissing her cheek. “There’s nothing that desserts won’t fix.”

“They may give you some new problems instead,” Lydia said, taking a butter cake.

“Oh love, he doesn’t care about the size of your stomach.”

She grinned at him, taking a bigger bite than a lady should. “Good to know.”

Emmaline left the two alone in the kitchen where they wordlessly ate, though Cullen kept one hand on her thigh. Later on, she inched closer to him, resting her head on his shoulder. In return he nuzzled her, breathed in her scent.

“Did I ever tell you how everyone found out I was a mage?” Lydia asked, before taking his hand and interlocking their fingers. “My father was hosting a banquet, and one of his friends, a visiting noble, wanted to see the stables. My mother told him she would show him. I stumbled across them later, and I saw him. On her. He…ugh. I think you know.”  
She shivered at the memory of it, remembering how even though she didn’t know what it was back then, she knew whatever it was, was wrong. Cullen understood and tightly held onto her.

“I injured him pretty badly,” she said, remembering the screams he made, screams more unnerving, because as a little girl, she never imagined a wail like that could from a man. “I hope he never tried that to anyone else.”

She felt the heat of the fire in her palms, just as easily as she did that day. “You don’t have to go on,” Cullen whispered.

“Thank you.”

His kisses lined her palms and wrists, while amber eyes never wavered from hers. In all her years she had never known anyone with eyes like his, eyes that she could spend a lifetime looking at, never wanting to look away.

“I wish we could escape,” she admitted. “Run away from everything.”

“I do too,” Cullen said, and there was some surprise in her. Surprise that his sense of duty didn’t speak for once, and override his carnal desires.

“You’re surprised,” Cullen noted. “Well, truthfully, the thought of running away never even crossed my mind, until…”

“Until what?”

“Us.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck, shifting in her seat until her legs too, were wrapped around him. In return his arms clung around her waist.

“My father wants to stay, doesn’t he?” Lydia asked.

She felt his nod.

“I don’t know if Dorian told you, but—”

“He told me the short version.”

“Mmm, then you know I’m a hypocrite. I told Dorian he should hear his father out, and look what I’m doing. Hiding away, being belligerent, and otherwise nasty. And my father isn’t the father Dorian’s father was. I can’t believe I—” she groaned. “Cullen. Tell me what to do.”

“That’s your decision.”

“Part of me wants to try to forgive,” she said. “But I don’t know how long that’s going to take.”

“Maybe trying is all he wants. And if you find that you can’t, he can’t fault you for trying.”

“I’m not ready yet,” she said. “Maybe soon. But not now. Or tomorrow. Probably not the next day, either.” She touched his forehead with his. “Cullen,” she muttered. “I just want us to escape, maybe just for a day. Forget a little. Pretend we met in…I don’t know, Denerim maybe. I was never a mage, you were never a templar, and I sold flowers or something in the market, and every day you bought one from me before finally one of us had the courage to say something.”

He laughed, cradling the back of her neck, sharing the same air that she breathed.

“Lydia,” he mumbled, “let’s escape.”

She was certain she was hearing things. “What?”

“Well, we have some dealings in Ferelden,” Cullen said. “Perhaps you would like to come with me, if you can spare the time, of course.”

“Is there something wrong? Is it with the red templars?”

“What? No,” he said quickly. “I would rather explain there, if you wish to go.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Dealings you say? Why haven’t I heard of these dealings before?”

“Well, as I said, I would rather explain there,” he answered. “When would you like to leave? Tomorrow?”

“Can we do that?”

“I believe so. The fete is still some ways away. And I’m sure Josephine and Leliana will understand how important these dealings are.”

“Then, I think we should take care of these dealings, if they’re important."

“I’ll make the necessary arrangements.”

It was a new feeling, knowing her paramour was up to something sly. She did however, like it a lot. And even if it was only for a little while, and all of her problems would be back and waiting for her when they returned, there would be one moment of paradise.

She made a mental note to take the potion Vivienne gave her.


	32. Scars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay all. rating has changed on this story to be on the safe side. You can probably imagine why at the end of this chapter.

When Cullen told Josephine he wanted to take the Inquisitor away for a few days, Josephine huffed at the prospect of being the one to solely deal with Trevelyan in their absence, as privately, Josephine revealed that Trevelyan was not an easy man to deal with, and she almost wished Lydia had sent him away as soon as he arrived. That said a lot, as Josephine usually never complained about anyone, even the overly pompous Orlesians. None the less however, she gave her blessing for the trip, and promised she would take care of things. Cullen also asked Leliana to forward any correspondences that Rylen sent to the keep. She agreed, but said she would only send a raven if the matter was “of extraordinary importance,” because he needed this small escape as much as Lydia did. The smile was somewhat hidden by her hood, and she wouldn’t say so, but Cullen knew. She approved.

That morning they were set to leave, Cullen dressed in his room, observing himself in the mirror beforehand. He hardly looked at himself longer than was necessary, usually just long enough to make sure his hair was right and natural curl was tamed, but that morning as he dressed, he forced himself to really look. He saw many reflections at different points in his life. Many times, it was someone he was ashamed of. Too often. It was going away somewhat, that feeling of being ashamed, but he still scrutinized himself. Some would have said too needlessly and for little, stupid things at that. Still he groaned at himself. While he still trained as much as he could, the fact was he was doing less of it now, and since a greater portion of his day was spent behind a desk, that fact was beginning to slightly show. The copious butter cakes weren’t helping matters either.

His scars bothered him more though, He was lined with jagged cuts and scrapes on his abdomen and torso, a collection were it was impossible to say where each individual one was received. Yet none of them were worse than the rough, pinkish skin on his right shoulder. He hated looking at it. Hated being reminded. He would look at it sometimes and still feel the fire from that night in Kinloch. Some nights he would wake up in the middle of the night and feel the burn still. Remember. And he didn’t want Lydia to see that, right along with the scars on his arms and wrists. Someday though, if things continued as they were, she would see.

He wasn’t sure what would happen when they would inevitably rest for the night. If that would happen. He had no expectations, no plan to try to sweep her off her feet, as she referred to it as. He would have to wait and see. He would have to hope he wouldn’t remember.

“Well, our friends give us their love,” Lydia said in the stables, saddling Pepper as Cullen saddled his own mare. “Frankly I’m still shocked you suggested this.”

“We have some dealings,”

She raised her eyebrows, and the charade was dropped. Frankly he was glad of it, as being sly was something he never prided himself in. “Perhaps I’m being selfish,” he admitted to her. “But…”

“But what?” she prodded, husky and low.

“I want you to myself.”

He shocked himself with his brazenness, but once he said it, he had no desire to take it back. Especially when she asked him what he intended to do, when he had her to himself.

“I haven’t planned that far ahead yet,” he admitted, walls broken, lust dripping from his words, and his eyes involuntarily drifting to the curve of her hips.

“Think of something then.”

The words were honeyed with so many unspoken desires, that shivers racked through him. How arousing was it, to want a woman that wanted him back with a passion that matched.

Don’t think. He thought to himself. Sweep her off her feet.

 

* * *

 

 

It didn’t take long for Lydia to realize that wherever Cullen intended on taking her, it was near Crestwood. She figured it out the second day into their five day journey, but when he asked her where exactly he was taking her, he promised she would see all in good time.

Their time traveling together wasn’t filled with needless chatter, but it didn’t have to be. Lydia learned a thousand things about Cullen as they traveled together. She knew he was a capable rider already, but she learned the full extent of it traveling, and later on as they rested for the night he confessed he was lucky enough to learn as a young boy. What was more surprising however was the fact that his wheat colored mare was named Buttercup. If he found it emasculating for the Commander of the Inquisition to ride a horse named Buttercup, he never let it on, and whenever he referred to his mare, he did it with gusto, and made sure Buttercup knew Cullen found her the finest mare in all of Ferelden.

She also learned that he could hide his worry, if he had to. She knew he carried fears about Rylen and the red templars. Knew it worried him an awful lot, as it worried her. There hadn’t been word from them in a while, and so many things were riding on their success. The Inquisition had to stop Samson, and the Inquisition had to make sure the source of the red lyrium was destroyed. But with Cullen, there was more to it than that. It was impossible to say how many templars had turned, or how many would turn. And Cullen carried with him the fear that the longer it took, more people, people he may very well have known, may have been turned. It made Lydia’s problem, her issue with her father, pale in comparison. But if Cullen was worried, and she knew he did, as so many things worried him, their relationship included, he didn’t let her know. He only smiled, and laughed, and lived for the now. This moment with her. And he was so wonderfully quiet, and radiant. And happy.

“I like you like this,” she mentioned, the two of them having a drink at the tavern and inn they were staying at on the way to Crestwood. “Happy. Carefree.” She took a sip of honey mead. “Radiant.”

His lips lightly brushed her forehead in an almost kiss. “It’s you.”

“It can’t all be me. There has to be something in you.”

“If it was. It was lost once.”

“Why was it ever lost?”

“It doesn’t matter. You’re here now.”

She did not pry it from him. Instead she felt the fluttering of her heart, the rise of something she was beginning to understand was inextinguishable desire. Raw and insatiable, and she felt it increase when Cullen suggested they retire to their room. For a small inn the bed was relatively large, and as he allowed her to change into her shift, his back was turned toward her. 

When they crawled into the bed, as subtly as she could, she pressed closer to him.

“Lydia,” he murmured, his hand on her back, pressing her further in. “Dearest.”

Boldness, a side effect of the copious amounts of mead she drank that night, got the better of her, and she was raining kisses on every part of exposed flesh that she could find. Breathy sighs escaped his lips as she shifted on top of him, little moans coupled with smooth circles against her back as she kissed him. “Cullen,” she breathed between kisses. “Do you want…?”

At his stiffening, she stopped, crestfallen.  “Please don’t be upset,” he said, taking a strand of her hair and twirling it with his fingers. “My last relationship…if you could call it that, see, I know I did everything wrong. I want to do _this_ right. You deserve that. I don’t want you ever to think that I’m using you.”

“I have never thought that,” she said. “Truly.”

He eased her to her side, where he still ran his fingers through her hair. “I’m glad.”

She felt herself asking it before she could think better of it. “Do you desire me?”

“I thought it was obvious,” he said, biting his lip. “Maker’s breath woman. Do you realize how arousing every little thing you do is?”

“I just live,” she said, though she felt that flush of feminine pride. “But what is it exactly, that arouses you so?”

“The way your hips sway when you move. The way you laugh. The way you say my name. When you kiss me.” Closer, he inched. “I desire you Lydia,” he said. “I’ve thought of you…at night. Us. Together. I was ashamed, at first. I sill partly am.”

“Don’t be,” she said. “I thought of you too. Alone.”

“Thinking about me, sweeping you off your feet?”

She closed her eyes. “I’m waiting,” she said. “Waiting. Waiting…waiting…”

She was going to wait some more it seemed, as she fell asleep almost immediately after. The next morning she had vague memories of asking Cullen if he found her sexually arousing, and judging by his smile as he stood by the bed, already dressed and waiting for her, she could only assume that she was right.

“Ready to be swept off your feet?” he asked, smirk on his lips. And Maker, he didn’t know how much she was.

He led her to one of the camps the Inquisition set up in the area, leaving their horses there with one of the scouts in the area before taking her hand. “Close your eyes,” he bade.

“Close my eyes?”

“I won’t lead you astray. I promise.”

She mirrored his grin, doing as he asked and allowing him to lead her. Eventually, she registered she was no longer walking on soft grass, but something wooden.

“Alright,” he said. “You can open.”

He had taken her somewhere she would have never expected. Yet all the same, she was delighted. Soaring.

“The lake,” she said. “You took me to the lake.”

“I did,” he replied. “It was always so quiet, and—” His face fell. “You don’t like it.”

“Cullen, no. I love it. I—I’ve always loved to be near water. I was…I’m surprised.”

When she was in Crestwood, meeting Miranda for the first time, she didn’t exactly have enough time to stop and enjoy the scenery. But she had seen the lake in the distance, and she had longed to stand near the water’s edge, perhaps dive in. She hadn’t swam in a long time, not since leaving Ostwick. Not since the Circle really. And now here she was. "It’s wonderful," she said, feeling as though she was in a sort of waking dream. “How did you know about this place?”

“Honnleath is near here,” he answered. “As a child I would come here. This place was always quiet.”

She peered at him. “Did you come here often?”

“I loved my siblings. But they were very loud. I would come here to clear my head.”

She imagined a young Cullen, hair unkempt and curls left natural and un-brushed, coming here by himself to stand at the water’s edge. So much of his life was defined by the templars and what those experiences made him, that she felt lucky, and in a way, very privileged to be privy to peak into a side of him that was a part of the time before.  
“This must have been your secret place,” she said, feeling wistful.

He chuckled. “It would have been, but Mia or Branson, or my friend Kate always found me eventually.”

“What was Kate like?” She asked, wanting to get a better idea of what it was like when he was growing up.

“She was quite the adventurer,” he reminisced, leaning against the dock. “We played games with wooden sparring swords sometimes, and once, she said she would give me something if I managed to go run and touch the golem statue that was in the center of town. She was good on her word too. Gave me my first kiss afterward. Oh Lydia, I was eight!” he added at her furrowing brows. “And it was every bit as awkward as you could imagine.”

“What happened to her?”

“I don’t know. I think she escaped when the Blight fell. She might have moved to Denerim, I know she had family there. The last time I saw her was the day I left for Templar training. It was also the last time I was here.”

“Until now,” she pointed out.

He nodded. “Until now. I never thought I would have been back her again. Of course, now everything has changed.”

There was something more to his words, a deeper gravity to them that she pondered for a moment. She saw a young, unruly and curly haired Cullen again, standing on that very dock with all the idealism and hopes youth tended to bring. What the templars took away. Things she didn’t even know the full extent of.

She knew him then. The here and now. What really mattered. She knew the man that had forged a new path for himself, find his way again.

“As much as things have changed, some things have stayed the same,” she said. “Once you said you wanted to be a templar as a boy because you wanted to help and protect others. Still now, you want the same things.”

“I suppose so.”

“It is true.” She said, facing him directly, locking her arms around him. “It’s one of the things about you that I adore.”

He practically glowed and beamed. “I’m curious now,” he said, a hint of bashfulness.

“About what?”

“The other things.”

She chuckled. “Oh? The things I adore about you?” She smirked. “Well. Your eyes, for one. I also adore your hair. Especially when it’s natural.”

“Only for your eyes.”

She chuckled. “I feel honored.”

“Anything else?”

“There’s more,” she said in a sing-song way, beginning to caress his jawline with her thumb. “This,” she said, paying special attention to the small cleft as well. “But, especially this.”

Feather light, she traced his lips with the pad of her finger, paying special attention to the scar on his lip. Often she felt it when they kissed, the places where the heal wasn’t clean or seamless. The scar always felt like velvet under her lips and tongue. And what was more, it didn’t take away any of his attraction. If anything it made him more magnetic, a line that added character to his face. Highlighted his experiences, and proved to the world that he survived.

“Do you mind if I ask you something Cullen?”

He sighed. “You want to know how I got it, don’t you?”

“I do.”

His gaze darted from hers. “Well. I was hit.”

“With a sword?”

“No,” he clarified. “If it was a sword it probably would have done much worse.”

“You were hit with a shield? Someone shield bashed you?”

“Worse,” he said. “I was…” he cleared his throat. “There’s no heroic way to put this, is there? I was…punched.”

Now that she looked at it, she could see how a spiked gauntlet could do the job. The only people she knew who wore spiked, uncomfortable gauntlets were the templars however. “Was it another templar?”

“No.” He sighed. “Fenris.”

Her mouth dropped. “You mean…Hawke’s…?”

“I always knew him as one of Hawke’s friends. The elf from Tevinter. I didn’t realize how…close they were for a while. But after Meredith was defeated, I was the highest-ranking Templar left alive. Those who stood with me against her turned to me to make decisions. I knew just as many wanted Hawke either gone or dead, just as others in the city did. It was apparent then, that Hawke couldn’t stay. Too many people would blame her, want her to suffer for aiding Anders, even if she never knew or approved of what he did.” He took another deep breath before continuing. “She was upset when I told her she would have to leave. And Fenris? He wasn’t happy either. In fact, he wasn’t happy with the way I handled anything over the years. He had enough, as we all do at times. So…” he made a gesture towards his face, and she got the idea. “If he saw me today, he would probably do it again, and I can’t say I didn’t probably deserve it.”

“Don’t feel bad,” she said. “If he saw me today, he would probably do the same thing to me. Then we would match.”

She turned her eyes downcast. Hawke. She would never not regret.

“Lydia,” Cullen muttered, lifting her chin up. “You did everything you could.”

“Did I? I—"

“Do you know what I adore about you?” he asked, breaking her words. “It’s the fact that you care.”

“How can I not?” she pondered.

“How many would have done what you did in Haven?”

“Many, I would hope.”

He disagreed. “I don’t think many would. And you knew, when you ran off. You did it anyway.” He pulled her into his frame. “And you lived.”

To be here. With him. “I was lucky.”

“I’m the lucky one.”

“I find it surprising you believe in luck,” she admitted. “In the templars, it’s faith that sees them through. Not lucky.”

“You’ll also probably find this surprising then.”

Digging into his pocket, he took out a silver coin. Small, with the image of Andraste engraved onto it, albeit slightly worn from a preoccupied thumb. Instantly, she knew what it was. A good luck charm.

“My brother gave it to me, right here, the day I left for templar training,” he said. “It just happened to be in his pocket, but he said it was for luck.”

“And you’ve carried it with you, all this time?”

He nodded, glancing down at it. “By chance, I took it out at Haven, and I had it with me when I found you. Maybe…” he rubbed the back of his neck. “I, well…I believe you are supposed to be here. Truly I do,” he said. “But sometimes, I can’t help but wonder. About luck, I mean.”

She thought of his face, the look of horror in his eyes when the memories came back. The look of the haunting and hunting ingrained. She couldn’t help but feel in some ways that the coin betrayed him. He suffered. Still suffered. She didn’t think that could be called luck. “You haven’t been all that fortunate,” she pointed out, as gently as she could.

“I should have died during the Blight. Or in Kirkwall, or Haven. Take your pick. And yet, I made it back here.”

Back to his secret place as a child. The place where once he stood, full of hopes and ideals. He found his way back, to have her at his side.  
That was why he thought himself lucky. The fact that he was with her.

He took her hand and placed his brother’s coin in her palm. “Humor me,” he said, still holding on. “We don’t know what you’ll face before the end. This can’t hurt.”

She held it in her hand. It was such a small thing, but it seemed to carry the weight of everything he had been through. She wondered if his luck would run out if she took it.

“If this keeps you safe, it’s worth it,” he said, reading her thoughts. “Really.”

“I wish I would have known,” she confessed. “What can I give you?”

“You give me something every day.”

She didn’t mean to get lost in him, didn’t mean to fall as he leaned down and kissed her. She did anyway, so unashamedly. She fell so unashamedly that she wondered why she even could fool herself into thinking she never meant for it to happen. Afterward they remained together by the lake, indulging in this time together where they could simply be. No Inquisition. No titles of Commander or Inquisitor. No worries about her father, or anything at all. Just the feeling of being able to be anything, with Cullen.

When the thunder that rumbled heralded an oncoming storm, they managed to get to their horses before the light rain fell. They rode back to the village, deciding the inn would be preferable to staying at Caer Bronach with other Inquisition soldiers, and by the time they arrived inside, the grey-haired innkeeper wasn’t pleased to see two laughing, rain soaked fools with their arms around each-other. A few coins of extra gold did the job, and he led them to their room with no further grumbles. It was simple room, with a small window, a fire in the hearth, and a bed big enough to fit the both of them. She tried not to glance at it too much.

They sat by the fire for a bit, letting the warmth dry them off. “Too bad it rained,” Lydia said as she combed through her hair. “We could have gone for a swim.”

“Swim?” His eyebrow quirked. “Uh, Lydia. I—”

“You don’t know how?”

She was surprised at the affirmative confession. “But you pulled me out of the water that night, after Adamant,” she remembered.

He ran his hand through his hair, drying it. It was becoming curly again, much to her delight. “Well, it didn’t seem too difficult. At any rate, I was more worried about you.”

“Your favorite place as a child was a lake, and you never learned to swim?”

“It was quiet,” he defended. “And, well, Branson fell in when we were still young. I tried to get him out, but that didn’t do any good. My father was the one who had to save us. And you know, the water is safe if you just stand near it.”

He said it teasingly, and she laughed, promising him that one day, she would show him how to swim.

“I would like that.”

“Good,” she replied, lightly squeezing his shoulder before getting up and reaching for her knapsack. Thankfully, her nightgown didn’t get soaked in the rain. It was admittedly a bit frilly for traveling, as it was long and made of satin, but she preferred sleeping in silks and satin, and it was something she insisted on, even in the middle of the desert. Cassandra made fun of her for it, often enough.

Like the gentleman he was, Cullen kept his back turned toward her as she changed into the shift. Only her shift. And when she was done, she tucked his coin away, safely in her knapsack. He regarded her as she sat back down next to him, still enjoying the warmth of the fire.

His eyes softened as he regarded her. That was the thing about Cullen. He didn’t have to say anything at all. He only had to look at her, and she felt beautiful.

Eventually his fingers entwined through her still damp hair, moving it aside. Her shift barely covered her shoulder, and she closed her eyes as his calloused hand caressed the scar on her shoulder, brushing it with his thumb. “How did you get this?” he asked. 

“Do you remember, when we went to Redcliffe to get the mages? What happened with the amulet? Well, when Alexius sent us back in time, we had to fight our way to the throne room.”

“It seems so long ago that happened.”

It did, but she was reminded, and she didn’t want to be. She didn’t want to think about that dark future ever again. Not the future where he didn’t survive.

“You stopped it,” he muttered, sensing how her thoughts drifted.

“I know.”

“You weren’t there.”

“What?”

It came tumbling out. “In Redcliffe, Bull, or Cassandra—one of them told me the truth. You died trying to storm the castle, and—”

She couldn’t go on. He grasped her hand. “I’m here now. I’m here,” he chanted. “I won’t leave.”

“You promise?”

His answer was an eager and hungry kiss, a kiss that made her weak and dizzy, and sent her tumbling onto the rug as the embers danced in the fire. Cullen following, allowing his mouth to travel lower, to her neck and pulse point. Her hands traveled as well, roaming down his back, and his breathy sighs compelled her. Wanted her to give him more.

“There’s…I have…”

“What is it?” She remembered being in bed with him. The fear in his eyes before they went any further. “Are you—”

He removed himself from her, lifted himself up. "Lydia. My scars."

“Scars?” she repeated, blinking back surprise. “You’re not ashamed of them, are you?”

“No.”

“Please don’t be.”

Like he had done so many times when he tried to comfort her, she rose from the ground and pressed her hand to his cheek. It took a moment, but at last, his eyes met hers.

“May I show you something?” she asked him.

Upon his nodding, she bit her lip. She had never done this before, never imagined herself being this bold. But it was for him, so she felt not a single ounce of shame under his loving eyes, eyes that never wavered from hers. She took a deep breath to calm herself anyway, and pushed the straps of her shift down. Past her shoulder. First one, then the other. She pushed lower then, past the tops of her breast. She could have stopped there. It was visible enough. Yet there was more to it. So she pushed the silk even lower.

“Lyd…I don’t—you’re beautiful.”

He didn’t understand. Not at first, and her adoration for him increased a thousand times. He looked at her naked breasts for the first time and didn’t see the scar. Or perhaps he did, but it didn’t matter. They were hers, and he loved everything that was hers.

“Maker,” he breathed. “You’re a lovely sight.”

“Look here.”

She traced it with her forefinger, and he saw. He saw how even though it had healed, there was a long, but healed gash between the valley. A long strike, sweeping over and a little below her left breast. It was where the templar had stuck his blade, moved it across her skin and cut her, even through the heavy wool of her Circle robe. The templar would have made the same mark across her cheek, but Asher had found her beforehand. She could barely look at it sometimes, it’s image reminding her of that naïve girl who believed her family would take her back. That’s when she got the scar, that day she tried to return home, but her father sent her away.

The sword cut through one of the most feminine parts of her. That templar—Merrick was his name— he knew what he was doing. He always chided and chastised her after she and Asher were found out, and he was one of the few templars at Ostwick who broke away when the war began. He meant to humiliate, and scorn her with his blade, before he did something much worse. Now Cullen looked at her scar. No disgust or shame. Instead, he was awestruck that she would allow his eyes to be privy to that part of her which she dared not share with anyone else. So when she moved to kiss his own scar, the one on his lip, he placed his hands on her face. Made their eyes meet.

“Lydia,” he said, with a voice laced with promises. “Let me do something for you.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Let me do something for you.”

There was no taking the offer back, but nothing could have ever compelled him to. “What are you thinking?” she asked.

“I want to show you.” He motioned to the bed. “Would you...?”

“Yes.”

Haphazardly, she covered her breasts before she sat on the edge of the bed, and it was only then that Cullen felt the heat rise to his cheeks. More often than he would have liked to admit, he thought of undressing her. Never in his imaginings did he think of something like this. Expressly as well, he had promised himself that no matter what happened between the two of them, he would keep her fully clothed. Plans had all changed now.

He made his way to the bed, crouching by her. She kept her shift on, but her breasts were still exposed, and he bit the inside of his mouth. His hands were shaking. Wanting to touch. Have them in his palms. Encircle her nipple in his mouth. Hear the sounds she made as his tongue swept over the scar. But when her fingers hesitantly reached for the seam of his tunic, he grabbed her hand. “Lyd—”

“I’m sorry,” she said, truly meaning it. “If you don’t…Maker.” She closed her eyes, frustration rising. “Please don’t be ashamed.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

He cursed himself. Maker, all he wanted was to make her happy, and try. He couldn’t even do this one simple thing for her.

_Please don’t make me remember. Please. Please don’t let her see my wrists and ask._

It was fairly dark where they were, he noted. They were angled away from the fire. Perhaps she wouldn’t see what he was most ashamed of. Perhaps.

He became ready then. To take that chance.

When the tunic fell to the floor, her mouth became slightly parted, pupils blown so wide he could hardly see the blue. Her gaze swept his torso, the scars on his abdomen, the cuts that lined his stomach, but it must have been instinct that drew her gaze toward his shoulder.

“Fire,” she murmured. “How?”

It was a lie, but he told her it was from Kirkwall.

She placed her hand on the scar between her breasts. “Templar.”

“It should have never…”

“We’re together now."

She touched his body with a love he didn’t think he would ever have, or deserve. A touch that sought to make him forget the pain of each and every one. But when her hands traveled down his arms, he felt that fear, the fear she would see his wrists. So he grabbed her hands, and pinned them above her head, simultaneously covering his body over hers. A heady, intoxicating gasp escaped from her, and her body arched underneath him, further pressing her hips into his growing arousal. He had to bite the inside of his mouth again, remind himself that this would be for her. Everything would be for her, even as the low and base thought of thrusting himself into her entered his mind. The low and base thought of fucking her.

Such a foul word it was, _fuck,_ even though that’s what it was, to be inside of her, and thrust his hips into hers. But he didn’t want to fuck her. He wanted to kiss every inch of her, especially the parts of her she didn’t like. Litter her with his mouth so the whole Inquisition could see who she chose. Taste her.

His hands slid down, resting on either side of her face, and cradling it as he drew a long and lingering kiss. He gulped when he parted, eyes resting on her swollen and red lips.

“Show me,” she beckoned. “Cullen. Show me what you wanted. Please.”

His mouth twitched into a smirk as he read her thoughts, which by the impish glint in her eyes, had to be something along the lines of _you smug bastard._ He chuckled, anxiety slowly melting as he thought of all things he intended to do to her. He started however, with two kisses, one for each eyelid, fluttering shut in the process. Her small form of her surrender. The prelude done, he took this as a good sign, so he moved to her forehead, his lips following the path of her hairline. He never noticed before, how she had the faintest of widow’s peaks. He followed a small path with his lips there before he at last captured her lips. They were as soft as a rose petal, and all the while Lydia kept her hands on his back, fingertips and palms pressing into the flesh, and drawing soft hums of his own.

He was attuned to her delight, that his own need became fleeting, but not completely forgotten as he moved to her neck. He knew what spots made her moan just so: the soft hollow at the base of her throat, and that little juncture that connected her neck and shoulder. She had such a lovely slender neck, and shoulders that were sloped, small and dainty where his were large. He gave equal attention to both of them, his mouth reverently bestowing kisses to that scar on her shoulder blade. In that time her hand moved to his hair, fingers twisting through the errant curls as her want became all the greater.

He knew exactly why she became more desperate then, and further pressed himself into her. _This is real. Not that twisted future._ He told her so with everything he had. Her answer was to drape her leg over his, pin him down.

His mouth following a path down her body, he realized where the next natural place to lavish his attention on was. Even if he could feel them pressed against his body, the thought of _should I_ made itself known as he paused his ministrations, glancing at her breasts. He decided to seek her eyes, wanting approval. At her nod, eyes still did not leave her, even as his mouth and tongue slid down the valley, kissing the scar. Kissing the sides of her breasts. He wasn’t in the habit of gaping at women’s chests, but he had spent a fair amount of time gaping at Lydia’s, even when there were other parts of her he found fascinating. But Andraste. Maker. There was not a single part of her that wasn’t beautiful. Her breasts a part of that.

Using his fingertips, he began to make smooth and circular patterns around her curves, before brushing his fingertips against her nipple. She moaned, arching, and eager for more. Her nipples were rosy, and as his tongue lapped around them, encircling his lips around. They became pert under his ministrations, and her grip in his hair tightened. She was moaning, moaning, and placing her hands on his face, pulling him upward and claiming his lips to hers. One of his hands traveled down, over her breast, down her stomach. Her dressed had bunched past her thighs, and his hand caressed her hips. It occurred to them that if she was wearing smalls, he would have felt them by now. He didn’t.

His limbs suddenly felt wooden.

“Cullen,” she implored.

“Dearest,” he breathed, imploring her in turn. Wait.

Her breath caught as he moved down her body, down her legs. Nipping and laving over the flesh of her thighs, making sure he wouldn’t leave marks. Then he was grabbing her ankles, massaging the muscly calves. In his rushed fantasies that left him embarrassed and ashamed, he always imagined a reverence given to these parts of her. Now that the fantasy was playing out, he made sure to make it last. If he wanted to tease her more, he would have remained there longer, kissing and lavishing her legs. But her fingers were pulling at his scalp. and she breathed, _please, please, please._ It was so intoxicating, arousing, that he had to give her what she wanted, coming to settle her legs over his shoulders before peeling back her nightgown. Her scent was a strong musk, and when he thought of how her taste would linger on his tongue, he had to rock his hips into the mattress. But he left open mouthed kisses along her inner thighs first, lightly biting and nipping and laving over with his tongue. And when his knuckle just barely ghosted over her sensitive bud, she dug the balls of her feet into his back.

Compared to many, Cullen knew he had little experience, but he knew that was where a woman’s pleasure was. Still, he didn’t know what she found the most pleasure in, so he started slow, with pads of his fingers. A little at first, before applying more pressure. She was warm, becoming almost drenched, that it was impossible not to imagine what being buried inside her would be like, but he continued with his fingers, watching as she clamped her lips shut, suppressing her cries. Any more of that, and he thought she would come around his digits, but he didn’t want to make her come that way. So he stopped temporarily, smirking at her cry of protest. His fingers were glistening when he came to cup her face.

She surprised him, taking his wrist. Before he could pull it away, she locked their gazes. Tasted herself on his fingers and swept her tongue over his digits. He almost became lost in the intimacy of it, the feeling of her mouth almost too much, but when her other hand rested at the seam of his breeches, he was brought back.

“Cullen…”

“There’s more,” he beckoned, grasping her hips in his hands. His stubble grazed along her inner thighs, and she bit her lip in anticipation, knowing. Tilting her hips.

The flood become loose. His resolve, inhibitations, everything fell as he encircled her bud with his mouth.

Her cry was unusually sharp, that it nearly made him believe that perhaps she did not like it, but her hand grabbed a fistful of his hair and locked him in place. He tested various patterns, swirling his tongue, using the tip to make small circles. Her hips thrashed with such ecstasy that he had to pin her hips in place, not being able to help how his palms drifted below, squeezing the plump flesh. When he hummed, the vibration of it elicited a litany of affirmatives. _Yes. Please. More. Don’t stop. Cullen… Cullen…_

Before he began he wondered if he should add one more addition, but drunk on her chants and cries, he slid one finger inside her. At this she grabbed his free hand, interlocking their fingers and squeezing. Hard. She was so tight, so wet, and the salty taste of her was like nothing else he had ever tasted, better than he could have imagined, that he was forced to rock his hips against the bed and give some relief. He could feel her walls cramp around his finger, and he imagined having his cock buried there, for the briefest of moments.

“Cullen…you…I…” She moaned, yet everything stopped as she came, her name the only thing on her lips.

He rode it out, but he couldn’t help but remove his head from between her thighs to gaze at her, chest heaving, and flushed a rosy pink. She was so beautiful, her hair splayed across the pillow, and Maker, she glowed. Even more so when she broadly smiled, pulling him in for another kiss. The taste of her desire passed between them.

“I think your coin really is lucky.”

He chuckled, resting himself on top of her. Her own arousal satiated for now, the feeling of her hips against his cock reminded him of his own need. Somehow, he had managed to push his own need aside as he became enamored and drunk off of her, but as her hips rolled into his, it was becoming impossible to ignore. She was so soft, so warm and her mouth was on his neck, teeth scraping before gently laving over the mark with her tongue. Her palms were on his chest, stroking his scarred flesh, moving downward, and palming his length underneath his breeches. Drawing moans from him.

_Don’t remember. Don’t…_

“Lydia,” he breathed, beginning to feel it. The shake, the—

“Cullen.”

His heart was racing. _Don’t remember. It’s Lydia…Lydia…._

“Cullen?”

His eyes, clamped shut, opened. Found hers in the darkness. It was her. It was Lydia. His Lydia. Nothing would happen to him when he was with her.

She caressed his face. “Are you all right?”

“Yes.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing.”

She didn’t believe him, but she didn’t press the subject. Instead, when he pressed his forehead to hers, she left a kiss there. She left a kiss, and whispered in his ear, if she could be the one, to show him something now.

“You don’t…”

Her hips rocked. “I want to.”

She was slow, giving him time to back out if he wanted, as she removed his breeches. He helped her, cursing when they got caught in his ankles. When they were finally removed, he was collapsing on top of her, powerless as she grasped his length. He was at her mercy, and yet he didn’t wish to be anywhere else but where he was, and Lydia somehow knew exactly what to do. Her touches became bolder, gripping and squeezing and making the world shrink to only this moment. Or, he thought, perhaps there was no world at all, and only Lydia. Lydia, and her hands. Her lips kissing him as she stroked him. Knowing.

Lydia. beautiful, radiant, his, and as soon as her lips pressed to his once more, he came. He came, and he felt, for the briefest of moments, that the same fire that coursed through her veins now coursed through his.

 

* * *

 

 

Lydia must have drifted off, as the next thing she knew, Cullen was hovering over her, something warm and wet wiping away at her stomach. He dampened one of the washcloths on the dresser, she realized, and as he wiped at her stomach and thighs, removing the evidence of their lovemaking, she sighed.

When he was done, he put it back on the dresser, wrapping his arm around her afterward. Kissing the side of her face.

Their first intimate experience together, and everything would burn in her memory. Especially everything that happened after. His tenderness. His care.

He was silent for a while, that it made her feel suddenly nervous. “Did I do anything wrong?”

“Maker, no,” he said, and the kisses were so insistent that she forgot temporarily, about the fear she saw in his eyes before.

“I hadn’t…done something like that before,” she admitted. “That’s why I asked.” Stupidly, she added, “I just didn’t want it to be awkward, or wrong, or—"

“Don’t be ashamed,” he insisted, soothing her. “Really. It’s good to wait. I mean, that is…if you had done it with someone else it wouldn’t have changed how I felt… how I feel, but to be the first is… oh. Maker I’m not good at this.”

“You are.”

She felt his smile, felt him settle against her, the lethargy in him apparent. Yet before he drifted off into the fade, he called her name.

“Darling?” she asked, finding a pet name of her own to give him, matching his “dearest.”

He grinned at that. “You don’t...I mean, do you have a problem with…the way I look?”

“Haven’t I ever told you were the most handsome man in Thedas?”

“Maybe,” he replied. “But I meant…well. With my body. Scars. Do you have a…problem with it?”

“Only when it’s not on top of mine.”

The smile was practically radiant. She thought about telling him how beautiful each and every scar was, how she would always find him beautiful. But she decided to wait. Wait for the next time he doubted himself. For now, this was enough. Enough to make her forget there was anything else in the world besides Cullen. Which seemed to be his plan all along.


	33. Threads

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh. I got news for you Cullen and Lydia. The plot came back.

He engraved his lust and desire on her soul that night, and when he woke in the middle of the night, she heard him whisper and engrave another secret, one that made her heart soar.

_I adore you. I love you._

She thought she was still dreaming at first, until she felt him stir and wrap an arm around her. It was so dark that he couldn’t see the smile that played across her lips as she drifted off to the fade. Come morning, she still felt it engraved as he roused. Their arms wrapped around each other, once again he laid her on her back and gave her his mouth. Lost she became, thinking of the poor substitute her hand had been all these years as she imagined a faceless, masculine figure above her. In her imaginings she never dreamed of this, a man doing this for her, even when Asher replaced the faceless man, and even still when Cullen replaced everything. She wanted Cullen everywhere, wanted his mouth to kiss so hard that it would leave marks on her flesh, and leave not a soul wondering who she belonged to. But this, his mouth, and what was more, him doing it again, made her tremble with every swirl of his tongue, teasing nips to her inner thigh, and the sliding of his fingers. She imprinted it in her mind, so she may remember when she was parted from him, on a mission somewhere far.

He rode out her orgasm after, soft and rolling as it was. It was on her lips as she came, _Cullen I love you too_ , but he was on top of her not long after, kissing her and rocking into her. She tried to entreat it with he hands and wriggling hips that she wanted all of him, yet she made herself content with this, as he made himself content. She wasn’t sure how long they were like that, but eventually, when she reached for him and stroked, he came, and the warmth spilled onto her stomach and thigh.

He did what he did the night before, brought the warm washcloth to wipe away the traces. And as he kissed her, she wished harder than she had ever wished before, that this could be their every morning.

The secret too, left her dizzy and dancing. So dizzy she couldn’t say it out loud. _Cullen, I love you too. I love you too._

The knock on the door alerted them not long after however, and the grey haired innkeeper informed the two that someone was looking for them. It was Fisher, the lead scout at Caer Bronach, and she had a letter in her hand. “From Leliana,” she said, giving it to Cullen.

He opened the letter back in their room as they got ready, Lydia reading it over his shoulder. _Cullen,_ it read. _We have news. About the templars. Please return as soon as possible._

Cullen frowned. "We have to leave.”

I love you, he said to her in the blanket of darkness. He would not say it to her now, when there was no darkness and the Inquisition would not rest. Nor did he say as they rode back to Skyhold. He was however, there for her in other ways, there to give her a reassuring smile and squeeze of the hand. And every time she squeezed back or returned his smile, she wondered if he knew she was really saying I love you too.

In romance novels, when the couple exchanged their declarations of love, it was often a confession, and a culmination of everything else. Sometimes it was done before they made love, or even after. And though Cullen and Lydia had been intimate, they had not yet gone the full way. Bit she didn’t think that was necessary. He held her when she cried, told her a story from his childhood, and did so many other intimate things with her that had nothing to do with physical intimacy. Those things, perhaps, were more intimate than the act of making love. Though when the day came, and they crossed that final threshold…

 _I love you_ , he said in darkness. But she found that she had already known.

It didn’t need to be said for her to know. Yet she didn’t know if it was the same for him. If she went with her instinct, sometimes he did know, and other times he doubted. She only didn’t know what to do to make his doubts go away.

As much as Cullen was trying, so was she. And only when it felt right, would the declaration of _I love you_ come. When the time came, all doubts and everything else would all be melted away.

She clutched his coin on the way back, hoping for luck with her father, the templars, and everything else that would occur, but when she clutched Cullen’s coin on the way back to Skyhold, she had not one iota of how much luck they would desperately need.

 

* * *

 

 Dennett was the only one in the stables when they arrived back to Skyhold, or so Lydia at first thought.

“Lydia,” her father greeted, emerging from one of the stalls, the stall that housed Chestnut, a Ferelden bearded charger that Dennett coveted. “Good to see you back.”

Cullen took his place next to Lydia, placing a protective hand on the small of her back. “What are you doing here?” he asked, in not quite a demand.

Her father straightened. “Enjoying the stables. Ambassador Montilyet informed me the horse master would provide me a mare to ride. “I was wondering Lydia, if you would like to join me. I was informed you are a capable rider.”

“I have reports to attend,” Lydia replied.

She expected a scene, a tantrum thrown, but her father surprised, if not outright shocked her by simply nodding his head, and conceding. “Later then,” he bade, exiting the stables. Cullen’s expression was as blank as hers was after, expecting much the same thing as she. She shrugged in indifference at it. At the very least, she should take the blessings as they came.

Leliana arrived not too long after that. Cullen had spent more time with Leliana than Lydia did, and though Leliana always appeared cool and calm around her, this moment included, there must have been something in Leliana’s eyes or demeanor that startled him. “What’s wrong? What happened?” Cullen asked, his urgency rising.

“Rylen. He’s all right Cullen, but he was wounded during the mission, and—wait!”

When Leliana couldn’t stop Cullen from leaving and heading to the infirmary, she placed a hand on Lydia’s shoulder. “That’s not it,” she said. “Not all, anyway. The retinue of men that was sent. They captured a red templar.”

Then that meant, perhaps he knew where Samson was. Perhaps they had leaked Samson’s location. “Is that good?” Lydia asked.

“Yes and no,” Leliana replied, before elaborating. “She is…far gone, and not offering us any information.”

Lydia raised her eyebrows. There were women templars, yes, she knew that, but none at Ostwick, and hardly any since that she had become acquainted with, barring Lysette and a handful of others. “Has she been interrogated?” Lydia asked.

Leliana nodded. “And Dagna is studying the effects of the lyrium on her body. It is…not good.”

“Haven was enough to prove that.”

“That’s not all.”

Lydia was sensing this was going to be the worst news of all. “Yes?”

“The woman that was captured, the red templar. She—” Leliana took a deep breath. “She was one of Cullen’s lieutenants in Kirkwall. She—"

Her throat went dry. The wind was knocked out of her, and everything that happened, everything she thought she knew had suddenly altered.

“Lydia?” Leliana asked. “Are you—?”

“Elaine.”

Leliana blinked. “How did you know?”

Lydia didn’t know how to say it. How to tell stand there and say that Elaine was the woman in Cullen’s life before her. The woman, he admitted to her in a moment alone on the way to Crestwood, he should never have been with.

_I feel like I used her. She was always clear about what we were, but I used her._

_You didn’t use her Cullen._

_I know. But it feels that way. And I never want you to feel I used you._

_You never could._

“Lydia?”

“Cullen needs to know,” Lydia said, knowing that there was nothing else that she could say.

 

* * *

 

Elaine was the bridge between his life before and his life after. A hope that he could have more than a life bound by duty, but a reminder of who had been in his old life, and the choices he made. He wasn’t trying to run away from his past and his choices when he joined the Inquisition. He thought of them often. They kept him up at night, kept him shaking. But he had to live in the now. Had to make the world safe today.

When Elaine collided back into his life, she brought back everything else.

“Cullen,” she said to him in her cell in Skyhold’s dungeon, her voice raspy and hoarse. In the farthest corner she sat, and though she looked like the woman who had come to his room, naked save for a silky robe on that summer’s night, Cullen knew. She wasn’t that woman any longer. The woman in the cell was a shell of her former self, and a husk of what used to be.

“Cullen,” Elaine said again. “You have nothing to say. Typical.”

It wasn’t that. He could think of a thousand things to say, but his drowning mind and thoughts could only garble and make out one thing.

_How?_

“How?” She echoed, not even stifling her bitter laugh. “I found Raleigh. That’s what. But he didn’t do this to me. I chose it.”

“But you wrote to me, and it wasn’t that long ago!” Cullen exclaimed. “You said you were in Kirkwall, and things were fine.”

“And you had nothing to say to me?”

He wanted to smash his head against the bars of the cell. “Elaine. I—”

“No. I see how it is. You’re very important now, and you don’t have any time for me. You have other women to fuck. I wasn’t anyone important anyway”

“That’s not true,” he insisted.

Another bitter laugh. “Look. I never wanted anything more from you. It’s fine. I’m not jealous. I swear it on the Maker.”

He grimaced. “Elaine. You never answered my first question,” he said, trying to get some semblance of an answer from her. “You were in Kirkwall. You were still serving the Order there.”

“It’s not the same Order. Not since the chantry lost control.”

“The Order stands to protect against the dangers of magic.” He still held onto that belief, and some would have even called him too stubborn for doing so. “We—the templars. Their goal is to protect.”

“And somewhere along the way that got lost.”

“You were writing to me.” Now he was losing his train of thought. “You were writing, and the next thing I know, you’re in Ferelden, and—”

“And I am this.”

He had only given her the briefest of cursory glances, just enough to make sure it was really his Elaine. Upon hearing her voice however, any doubts were gone and melted. But now, he forced himself to really look. Blonde hair the color of wheat, hair he had always seen in a neat braid or neatly down and loose, was matted and stringy. She was in a flimsy, ragged dress, barefoot. Quite a bit of her legs and arms were exposed, and there was not one part of her skin that wasn’t covered in dirt.

Cullen remembered her touch. The feel of her alabaster skin underneath him, and how gentle she felt. Soft. Even though he did not love her, nor did he really think he desired her, she was gentle and warm, and there was comfort in having her underneath him. Back then, she was the woman who gladly spent the same amount of coin his family would have spent on food for over a month on cosmetics and lotions. _To remind myself I’m a woman,_ she once said when he asked her about it. _I want to be soft. The templar uniform is so harsh and big. When you feel your hands on me I want you to know these are the hands of a woman._

Maker, there was nothing soft about her now, and almost nothing that made her the Elaine she used to be.

But that wasn’t even half of it. The lyrium. It done more than corrupt her. It violated her.

It was radiating from her skin, and settled around her like a strange, vibrating aura. Made crimson line her eyes, once only a soft russet brown. Gentle, like the rest of her when she wasn’t fighting or in her uniform. And Cullen could feel it, feel the vibrations. The hum, and the pull. It was a drum that beat much more intensely and incessantly than any other lyrium. It seemed to beckon, and beg, promise something unknown for those who dared.

Promises, laced with a dark warning. Only for the worthy. Only for those that can withstand. Was that what drew Samson to it? Was it some sort of way to beat the chantry?  
_They’ve failed us Cullen,_ he hissed at him one night. _They give us their lyrium and they expect us to serve them. Is this how you want to live the rest of your life? Bound to the chantry? I would rather die. Die than let them own me._

 _It’s cruel what they do to us Cullen,_ he recalled Elaine say to him one night, wrapped in his blankets. _Maybe Raleigh was right._

“Raleigh,” Elaine said. “He was the one who wrote to me. Told me there was a way out. I came to him.”

“And you believed him?”

“Yes. I believed.” She stared, unblinking. Eyes glazed. Seeing, but hearing the song, hearing the drums of the red lyrium, compelling her. Taking her away.

She glared. “I won’t tell you where he’s gone Cullen,” she stated.

She had to. There was no other way. “Elaine,” Cullen said, trying to find a way to compel her. “He serves Corypheus. He serves an ancient darkspawn magister that seeks to destroy us all. If you do not tell us where Samson is, he will use the templars to aide him. You can’t want the templars to be part of that. You can’t want to see the world fall apart!”

“It’s not about Corypheus. It’s not about the chantry. It’s about loyalty. Raleigh was there for me. Even after he was expelled from the Order. He was there for me, and when he said there was a way out of the Order, another way to fuck the chantry, I went to him. He was loyal to me. You weren’t.”

He was standing on the edge of the cliff, about to fall. “Elaine…”

“Don’t “Eliane” me, Cullen Rutherford. I didn’t want this. Never wanted to be a templar. I hate the chantry and it can burn for all it did to me and the others. If I die in this cell, fine. I die. But at least I didn’t die for the chantry. At least I didn’t die for something that’s lost.”

“And Samson isn’t?” he retorted.

“No Cullen. Samson isn’t lost. Every day there is a new templar who wants something more. Every day. And he brings them to his side. That’s not lost. Not by a long shot. No. You are, for still thinking this is all worth it. Even though you left. You left and you still think the templars are worth it. You’re a hypocrite. Did you ever think about that when you laid with me?”

He did not move, did not do anything. Because there was nothing he could do or say. Nothing to Elaine, and nothing to himself. Nothing would make this all go away.

“You are a fool,” she rasped. “And naïve. And when I die, you still won’t know where he is. I’ll make sure of it.”

It was all very cold.

* * *

 

In the undercroft with Leliana, the Inquisition’s arcanist Dagna explained, in simple, uncomplicated terms as best she could for Lydia’s swimming mind, that the red lyrium was a poison. It was a poison, and there was no saving Elaine.

She also learned the full story behind Elaine’s arrival. She was brought to Skyhold the night Cullen and Lydia stayed in Crestwood, Leliana overviewed. Rylen, his men, and Bull’s Chargers, were at Therinfal, looking for more clues. It was there that they were ambushed by a small group of red templars, Elaine one of them. Rylen and Elaine recognized each other during the fray. That was when Elaine was knocked out and Rylen injured.

“I thought Therinfal was deserted,” Lydia said, trying to take this all in. "There was nothing there last time."

“There wasn't,” Leliana replied. “My agents however reported sightings of red templars in the area. I was the one who suggested Cullen should send his men back for more traces. Of course, now we’re not any closer to finding out where the lyrium comes from. Elaine has said nothing.”

“Was she interrogated?”

Leliana nodded.

Lydia bit her lip. She didn’t want to ask. She was afraid of the answer But she asked anyway. “Was she tortured?”

“She was interrogated,” Leliana said, only wavering just slightly. “My agents did not use force, but…” Leliana sighed. “We need information Inquisitor. We don’t know what Samson is doing, how many others he is swaying to his side.”

Lydia didn’t say anything to that.

“She’s not doing so well,” Dagna added. “I studied her, before she woke up. It’s like it’s growing inside of her or something.”

She remembered the hum at Redcliffe, how it was everywhere, inescapable. She imagined it inside her. She shivered.

“Right now, she’s our best hope when it comes to Samson,” Leliana said. “Guard rotations have been established. She’s to be watched at all times. Tomorrow we’ll try again.”

“Cullen won’t like that.”

“Maybe he can convince her.”

“He’s already gone to her.” And she hadn’t seen him since. Since she told him in the infirmary after he checked on Rylen, he had the look of a man haunted. Then again, the past had come back, so “haunted” may have been the most apt description. Her Cullen. He was haunted, and she was left wondering what to do, and how to help him.

Lydia exhaled. “He’s…”

“Not well,” Leliana said regretfully. “I saw him go to the garden afterward. But he wouldn’t be, would he?”

“No, Lydia said. “No.”

“This might take some time, to get information out of her,” Leliana leaned against the table, bringing the topic back to Elaine. “But we don’t know how much time she has.”

“Frankly I’m surprised she isn’t already gone,” Dagna piped. “It might be any day now that…well. You know.”

Lydia sighed. “Is there anything we can do?”

“Potions, poutlices. Not sure what else. But it will only ease the pain. It won’t heal it.”

“What are we supposed to do?” Lydia asked, feeling her options run out.

“You find a way to slow the spread of the lyrium.”

When Morrigan graced through the undercroft, Leliana raised a suspicious eye. That wasn’t very surprising to Lydia however, Leliana didn’t trust Morrigan, that much became evident at Halamshiral. What was surprising was the warm way Dagna’s eyes lit up, and the way she exclaimed, “Lady Morrigan!” as if they were old friends. It must have surprised Leliana too, as she noted. “I didn’t realize you were so acquainted,” taking the words out of Lydia’s mouth.

“She is a worthy scholar,” Morrigan said, giving the faintest of smiles, and making Dagna blush a little.

Leliana remained unmoved. “Morrigan. You can walk into the war room, but—”

“If she has an idea, I would hear it,” Lydia said. “Morrigan. Do you know a way to help Elaine?”

“Perhaps,” Morrigan replied, cryptic as ever. “I would suggest a tonic. One that stops the effect of lyrium in the blood.”

“I’ve never heard of something like that,” Lydia said, cycling through what she remembered from her education at the Circle.

“I doubt you would have. There are many things Circles do not teach,” Morrigan said.

“One of your mother’s tonics?”

“Twas’ one of my mother’s in fact, yes,” Morrigan replied, matching the glare on Leliana’s face.

“I’m a bit confused,” Lydia said, steering the conversation back. “Why would you have a potion like this?”

“To condense the story, I lived in the Wilds once, with my mother,” Morrigan explained. “My mother had many things she enjoyed doing. One of them being luring unsuspecting templars to our midst. I am sure you do not want to know the details, but let it suffice to say that when this tonic was breathed in, whatever abilities the lyrium gifted the templar wouldn’t work.”

“But this is red lyrium,” Leliana pointed out. "It's nothing like regular lyrium."

“The tonic cannot fully remove the lyrium. All it did was slow it, and make it virtually powerless. Red lyrium is a poison yes, but this tonic could perhaps slow the effects.”

“Once lyrium is in the blood, there’s not much that can be done,” Dagna said. “It stays there for a long time."

Lydia’s thoughts drifted to from Elaine to Cullen, and the struggles and demons he suffered every day with the last dregs of lyrium that no doubt still lingered in his blood. It had been a year at least since he stopped, yes, but he was young when he was made a templar. If he took it every day for a year…

She clutched his coin in her pocket. Willing it to take all his pain away.

“This seems like our best chance with Elaine,” Dagna said, continuing. “The tonic could give her some time.”

Leliana said nothing, but Lydia could tell she didn’t approve. Still, it was Lydia’s decision. “What all do you need?” she asked Morrigan.

“There is a flower. White with a red center that grows in the Korcari Wilds. I will need that, along with a few other herbs that can be easily retrieved here.”

Lydia asked if Leliana’s scouts could retrieve it in time. She was reluctant, but promised it could be done.

“I’ll speak to Cullen. See what he thinks,” Lydia said. “But send your agents Leliana.”

“As you wish.”

Morrigan nodded as well. “I will do what I can.”

“I’ll monitor her as well, Inquisitor,” Dagna said.

Lydia thanked them all before stumbling through the hall to the garden outside, hoping and not hoping to see Cullen. Of course she wanted to see him because she always wanted to see him, especially now. She still reeled from their time together, and craved more. But he was the one that knew how to comfort. Not her. Now however, she was faced with the fact that she would have to be the one that would comfort him. She wasn’t sure if it was something she could do. When she tried to comfort Asher in their few times of honest conversation, she had proven to be woefully bad at it.

“Looking for Cullen Inquisitor?”

“Rylen!” Lydia exclaimed, putting a hand on his shoulder as she met him in the garden. “Should you be up? Are you all right?”

“Fine lass,” he replied. “I wasn’t hit hard. Just a slash. I’ve been through worse. More worried about Cullen.”

Lydia arrived at the infirmary before Rylen could tell Cullen what had happened. He allowed her to be the one that told him the news, even though she would have preferred it if Rylen did. He wouldn’t have been happy no matter who told him though, so she supposed it didn’t matter. Nothing could stop it from hurting.

“Did you know about Elaine?” Rylen asked her. “Before all this, I mean.”

“I did,” she answered.

“There’s nothing to worry about there,” he assured, apparently noticing the face she made. “What he feels for you is much different. Stronger.”

“He told you?”

“Doesn’t have to. I know.”

She might have soared if she heard it any other time. “It still must hurt.”

“Aye. But...Well.” He motioned to the chantry. “He’s in there. I think he would like you there now.”

Lydia thanked him, bidding him to go rest. “As the Inquisitor wishes,” Rylen said, leaving the garden as she made her way over to the chantry. Hardly, if ever, she had ventured to the chantry, though she knew many in the Inquisition drew their strength from the porcelain Andraste, even if she never could. She knew Cullen was one of those people, one who would kneel before her and ask for strength or guidance. He knelt there now, in that same dutiful way she saw many of the templars kneel in the chantry at Ostwick.

“Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just…” he muttered, repeating the prayer. “Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow…”

“In their blood the Maker's will is written.”

She wasn’t sure why she finished the prayer if she didn’t believe—perhaps it was out of habit.

“Out of everyone,” he said. “It was her.”

“Cullen—”

He rose before she could continue. “You know what she said to me?” he asked her. “She said Samson was loyal to her. I wasn’t.”

Lydia didn’t understand. It made sense that she wouldn’t, anyway. She hardly knew the full story of Cullen and the woman before her. Only bits and pieces, here and there.

The woman before her. She realized it then—how foolish it was to call her that. As if she was the right woman for Cullen while Elaine wasn’t. And that may have very well have been true, but it equally could have not been, had Cullen’s life been any different. Either way, Elaine was a thread in his life, one he had kept buried from her, but a thread she could see if she began to unravel it. Not the same color thread that Asher was in her life, but a thread that was just as important in the tapestry that was Cullen’s life.

He unraveled the thread a little in the chantry then. He knew Elaine when he was still Kirkwall’s Knight Captain., and she was stationed in the Circle while Cullen handled other affairs. She also knew Samson. They were even friends.  
“When he was expelled from the order, Samson spent every last penny on lyrium,” Cullen said. “Elaine must have smuggled him some as well, I imagine.”

Lydia bit her lip. “When did the two of you…begin your relationship?”

“A year after Meredith was defeated.” He sighed. “I should never have…we shouldn’t… _Maker."_ Hands ruffled through hair.  "Why did she go to Samson? Why did she believe it was the only way? I failed her Lydia. She’ll die, and with her, we lose any hope of finding Samson. And it’ll be my fault.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Do I?”

“Cullen, there are a thousand maybes,” Lydia said, taking his hand. “But you didn’t fail her. I promise you, you didn’t. I blame Samson, not you. And Elaine was the one that went to him. She didn’t have to.”

“She went because she felt the Order trapped her. And Lydia…it did trap her! It traps us all, and yet—” he shook his head, looking everywhere but at her. Bitter and quaking. “Why do I think the Order is worth saving? Look what all it’s done and what it will continue to do.”

She wrapped her arms around his waist, allowing their eyes to meet. “Darling,” she muttered. “I think it is worth saving. That’s why we have to keep trying.”

“She won’t tell. I won’t force her to tell. That…” he sighed. “I owe her that much.”

“Cullen. Morrigan knows a way. A tonic that can temporarily slow the spread. We can give it to her, and perhaps it will lesson the pain, give her more time, and maybe she’ll tell.”

“Morrigan,” he murmured, contemplating, grimacing the whole while.

“I trust her," she said. "I believe she’s here to help. This is the least we can do.”

He nodded at that, a least. “I’ll…I’ll try again tomorrow,” he said. “And fine. Have her make the tonic.”

His arms, usually strong around her, felt weak. “Is something wrong?”

“A headache,” he replied. “Nothing more.”

“Do you want us to go to bed?” she asked, knowing perhaps it was a little brazen. “I can have a meal sent to my room. We can talk there more, if you would like.”

“I don’t think…” He looked at his feet. “I need to take care of a few things.”

“After then?”

“I don’t think I can.”

She tried to hide her disappointment. “Alright.”

He left her with one small kiss on her forehead. “I’ll be in my office, if you need me,” he said.

“Cullen. Do you need me now?”

“There’s work to be done.”

“That’s not what I asked. I asked if you need me.” She squeezed his forearm. “Do you want me to be with you now? I will, if that's what you want. I promise.”

“I…” he sighed. “I think I need to be alone. I’ll…” he kissed her forehead again. “Another time, alright? Soon.”

“Soon.”

When he left the chantry, Lydia gazed at Andraste. When there was no divine answer, as she knew there wouldn’t have been anyway, she clutched the coin, feeling her unspoken plea in the air remain. _Cullen. Be with me now._

_Let me love you as you say you love me. Let me know your winter._

She thought, standing in the chantry then, that this was his winter. But really, it was yet to come. So much was yet to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to mention this last time, but the fabulous @thelonmower on tumblr surprised me with some lovely art of Cullen and Lydia, here: https://a-shakespearean-in-paris.tumblr.com/post/167233999886/thelonmower-congratulations-to
> 
> Thank you again! :) And thanks for reading.!


	34. Repairing

You dwell on things far too much.

Often in his life, he had been accused of allowing little things and moments in time to consume him. If Mia won too many games of chess when they were children, she would accuse him of bringing it up more times than were welcome. Same in turn when he won a game. “You don’t have to rub it in,” she would exclaim, crossing her arms. They said the same thing at Greenfell when he was admitted there. _You must forget. Live your life._ He could scream at them, as he wanted to, tell them he would never forget. _How could I_ _forget?_  And it was true, he never did. They wouldn’t believe him anyway.

Lydia too. Standing on the battlements as she compelled him to kiss her. _Fuck the past. Be with me now_.

He knew what he was doing, every moment since they had returned to Skyhold. But he couldn’t escape his thoughts.

“Morrigan has given Elaine the tonic,” Lydia said, standing across from him in his office, midnight spilling through. “It should be working.”

“I should go to her then.”

“Give her time,” she suggested.

“Even with this, she doesn’t have much time. A week at most. I have—"

“In the morning,” Lydia insisted. “First thing. Please. Cullen. Come to bed. You don’t look well. You have circles under your eyes, I know you haven’t been sleeping. Let me take care of you.”

Her eyes pleaded with him, and her outstretched hand beckoned him to take it. “Alright,” he muttered, surrendering, and letting her lead him to the ladder. Lydia had never been in his room before, he realized, and had he known that she would have come up, he would have tidied it up more. Made his bed, perhaps. Forewarned her about the hole overhead. If it did strike her as odd however, she said nothing as she led him to sit down on his bed. She removed his mantle, undid buckles and took off his gauntlets and gloves, giving a lingering glance to the symbol of the templars that were engraved. He thought she would say more about it, wax about his past, but she merely asked him where he kept his armor during the night. Something to be thankful for, at least.

Directing her to the trunk, he took off his boots and unbuckled his trousers as she neatly set his things away. When she returned, peeling off her jacket and shoes so she was only in her tunic and breeches, she began to brush his hair away, her fingers warm against him.

“You don’t have to stay,” he said.

“I want to,” she replied.

It wasn’t a hurt, like the way his head often hurt. No, it was that persistent nag that what happened to Elaine was his fault. All because he didn’t open his eyes. He wanted to stop living with his eyes closed after the battle in the Gallows. He promised himself, he would. He would open his eyes. Clearly he didn’t.

He knew he shouldn’t have to burden Lydia with any of this. But the thought of being alone was too much. “Don’t leave,” he said, taking her hand. “Please.”

He wanted her to make him forget. It always worked before, being with someone. Or at least, that’s how it was with Elaine. Elaine, and how she would come to him, touch him everywhere save the places where there were scars. He and Elaine were bodies together, nothing but a primal and base need. Never mind that he didn’t love her, and this was leading her on. Never mind that this was only temporary, and he should never have in the first place. But this was Lydia. Beautiful, radiant Lydia, who made him believe, for the first time in a long while, that perhaps happiness didn’t have to be temporary. Lydia, who he loved, and wanted more than anything to say so.

A gasp escaped her lips as he wrapped his arms around her, bringing her astride his lap. His mouth ghosted here and there as he grabbed onto her hair, so her neck may be exposed to him. In turn she was holding onto his face, humming and sighing and further egging him to go on. Lydia. She was like fire and water. Having her near was being kissed by flames and embers, and along with that, she was a tide of water drowning him, and it was almost too overwhelming sometimes, to have her, to kiss her, and to have her want more than anything to give him her adoration. She was overwhelming, and yet he would never have enough.

It was only natural to lay her on his bed, to unlace her tunic and press kisses to the top of her breasts. To have her palm his clothed arousal, and slide her warm palms underneath his breeches, grabbing and gripping his hips. He was forgetting Elaine. Forgetting…

_Cullen. Make love to me._

He could see Elaine then, and her confused and bewildered expression as he fumbled with her clothes. _Are you a virgin, Cullen?_ She asked him. He didn’t know what to say to that. How could he tell her what happened in Kinloch?

 _It’s alright,_ she said the first time. _We can go slow. I’ll show you. Just trust me._ And he did, or at least, he tried to. Even if he never told her the full extent of Kinloch anyway. Perhaps she figured it out.

He kissed Lydia then, and it was Lydia. Beautiful and wonderful and radiant and everything he didn’t deserve. He pulled her hands over her head, nudged her legs with his knee so he may settle between her legs. He was on top of Lydia, feeling her fire, wanting to be overwhelmed, but no matter how hard he kissed, he saw Elaine behind his eyelids. Elaine touching him, moaning, begging him for more. Elaine locked behind the cell, the lyrium radiating off of her body. Succumbing. And there was no more fire after that.

“You’re trembling.”

She stiffened underneath him. He was trembling, he could feel how his hands on either side of her shaking. “No,” he uttered, more to them than her, continuing his path along the plains of her body. “I’m fine,” he said, though it didn’t matter how hard he kissed or how much he tried to bring himself to this moment. There was only Elaine.

“Please come here.”

He knew he couldn’t hide, couldn’t make pretend anymore. Not with Lydia. He felt the floodgates of a thousand tears that he would not shed in front of her as he pressed his forehead to hers, imploring the thoughts to leave him. “I want to forget. I want…” he muttered, but she was quieting him, holding and not letting go. “May I tell you a story?” she asked. “One about a priestess names Cliodna, and how she searched for her lowlander? She searched and searched, until she found him. He was everywhere. The earth, the sky. Everywhere.”

He became swept in her voice, swept in the here and now and not the past as she switched to another story. One where they weren’t a templar or a mage, and she was a flower seller in Denerim, and he was someone who bought flowers from her. He felt his eyes become heavy, and when at last he fell into the fade, there was nothing but that alternate reality of him, together with Lydia, with no care in the world other than the fact that they were alive.

Then the fade showed him Elaine.

Elaine and Samson, mocking him and demanding to know why he thought he could have a hand in fixing the world. Elaine under and over him, her eyes red with the lyrium, demanding why he should be allowed to stand and try to make the world safe when he had failed so many times in his life.

_He was loyal to me. You weren’t. You talk of loyalty and look at you. You will lose Cullen. Little boy, trying to play the knight. Little boy, way over his head. Couldn’t open his eyes and see…_

“Cullen, wake up!”

He cried out, the last traces of the dream fading until there was nothing but Lydia, her hair disheveled and eyes filled with concern. “You were dreaming,” she said, giving him a soft kiss to his forehead, a kiss he didn’t deserve.

He threw one leg over, bare foot hitting the cold floor. “I have to get up.”

“It’s still early morning,” she said, trying to hold him back in place.

“It doesn’t matter Lydia. I have to go to her.”

Not even changing his clothes from the night before, he stuffed on his boots and began to reassemble his armor. He had put on the mantle, ready to go down the ladder, when he felt her hand on his back.

“You can’t leave without fixing your hair,” she said. “What will everyone say?”

He gave in, Lydia leading him back towards his bed. Taking a comb from the bedside table, she ran through it a few times, tidying it up.

“Good as new,” she said after. “Ready for the day.”

Her smile was beaming, radiant. He tried to return it, but of course she noticed that half-hearted nature of it all. Even his apology was as pathetic as he felt.

“Cullen,” she said, kneeling before him. “Elaine is not your fault.”

“She is Lydia. She is. All the years I had known her, she never—I mean, it wasn’t her choice, being a templar. I would tell her that we have the potential to do good, but…Maker. She was trapped, and there was no other way for her. I left her. I left her and now I have to…I can’t face her!” he exclaimed. “I can’t.”

She grabbed onto his hand. “Don’t.”

“I have to.”

“For your health and sanity, please don’t.”

“Lydia…”

“Let me go to her then.”

“What?” He wasn’t sure he even processed the suggestion, not at first anyway. “How can that help? I knew her. Knew who she was, anyway. At least I thought I did. And she won’t even speak to me.”

“But we’re both women.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

Her brows furrowed. “I don’t know, I just thought… _ugh_.” She sighed. “For your health, your sanity, I don’t think you should see her. I should.”

“I would rather you didn’t,” he admitted. “I… she is…not well.”

“I can handle it.”

“Please don’t.”

“Why does it matter? Someone needs to get the information on her, or else Samson will continue to turn more templars. You have tried twice now, and she has done nothing. And you even said the last time you thought she was going to spit at you.”

“Third time’s a charm, right?” he asked, completely feeble, and in return, she wore a look of indignation.

“She is my responsibility, not yours,” he said, trying again. “Really. Please. This is not your burden.”

“We’re a couple. When I said I wanted to be with you, that didn’t just mean staying by you during the good. It also meant I’ll share your burdens.”

“I am your commander. I am supposed to protect you from unnecessary danger. Dammit Lydia, I know I can’t protect you from everything, but…” he grasped her hand. “Let me protect you from this. Please.”

“And I am your Inquisitor. And as your Inquisitor, I order you. For your own health: do not go to her.”

She didn’t leave him time to say anything else before she was down the stairs.

 

* * *

 

 She was a disheveled mess, with hair that was unkempt and desperately needed to be brushed. Her tunic was also wrinkled, as were her breeches, and overall she looked like what she had just done: left her lover’s quarters. And of course, the people who saw move about were going to talk.

It didn’t matter, people were always going to talk. As long as it remained between the two of them only how upset she was at him. Even if she shouldn’t have been.

“Elaine,” Lydia began, standing in Leliana’s rookery. “Take her out of the dungeon.”

“I don’t think that’s wise,” Leliana said, putting some reports down. “We don’t know what she’ll do if we leave her to her own devices.”

“I don’t think she should be left to her own devices,” Lydia clarified. “Clear her a space in the infirmary. We don’t have any wounded now, so she’ll be alone with the healers. And she’s dying, Leliana. The tonic is giving her time, but it’s going to happen. The least we can do is make her comfortable.”

Considering, Leliana eventually nodded, admonishing herself as well for not doing it sooner. “I will speak with the guards. Have her moved,” she assured. “Dagna has determined that the lyrium in her only harms her, at any rate. That was mostly why she had to remain below. It’s strange though. Have you read the reports on the lyrium?”

Lydia had. Dagna had determined that is was growing inside of her. Spreading, and the tonic Morrigan gave, though it could slow it, could not stop the unavoidable.

“Cullen thinks this is his fault, doesn’t he?” Leliana asked.

Lydia told the truth, and then more, knowing there was no use hiding it. She also thought, perhaps her advice would be welcome. “I’m worried about him,” she revealed. “He hasn’t been sleeping right. He looks haunted, and he’s taking responsibility for this. I don’t think he should go to her. The last times he did he couldn’t shake it away. I suppose I don’t expect him to, but…”

“You don’t want him to hurt.”

“No. Not at all.”

“People we care for will hurt Inquisitor,” Leliana said. “All we can do is be there for them.”

“I don’t want the people I love to hurt.”

“That is why you are the Inquisitor.”

She gave Lydia a reassuring pat of the hand, though it only marginally lifted Lydia’s spirits. “I suggest we bring her to the infirmary,” Leliana went on, switching things to topics at hand. “Let her rest. And then try again.”

Lydia nodded. “Is there anything else I should know?”

“Josephine means to see you as well Inquisitor. About the fete.”

The fete. It was two weeks away. Soon enough Skyhold would be filtering in nobles from Orlais, Ferelden and even some from the Marches, to celebrate the Inquisition. It all seemed so trivial, after everything. “It’s not as though we can cancel it now, can we? No, don’t say anything,” Lydia retracted. “I know if I even suggested it, Josephine would lose her mind.”

“I’ll be sure to let you know how Elaine is doing.”

“Very well.”

Josephine was only slightly scandalized at Lydia’s outfit choice when she walked in. “You know what people are saying, I’m sure Inquisitor. Do you hope to expediate those rumors?”

“I don’t care what they say,” Lydia said. “I just care about us.”

She swished her quill, mischief apparent. “And. How is our fine commander?”

It suddenly became very hot. “Cullen?” Lydia asked, though of course, obviously, there could only be one person Josephine would be talking about. “He is…well,” she said, though anyone would have known that wasn’t really what Josephine was asking. “Actually we haven’t…” Lydia played with her hair, and it all came blurting out. “We’ve done other things, but…”

“I see,” Josephine interjected, grinning. “Taking your time. But if you ever want to talk, I’m here.”

“I’m worried about him,” Lydia suddenly said. “Since Elaine, he…and I thought he… _mhmm_.”

“This will all be over soon,” Josephine promised, and though it was meant to be reassuring, knowing what would happen when it would be over, wasn’t very reassuring. But she spoke of the fete, and the various characters that would be arriving, all to meet the lady Inquisitor, and for a moment Lydia became swept in the grandeur, and perhaps even a little excited.

“The best part about this is that we won’t have to wear those terrible uniforms,” Josephine said. “Madame Gautier will be making a dress for you. In blue, of course.”

That excited Lydia more than she would have liked to admit. “Anything else Josie?”

“Oh yes.”

Lydia listened to what Josephine was saying, mouth agape. “A speech,” she said, afterward. “Right.”

“I believe in you, Inquisitor.”

She could believe in herself as well, she hoped. “I can do that.”

“You have some time to prepare. Something short and sweet, but leaves an impact.”

Lydia filed that information away for future reference, going into the kitchens for breakfast. She stuck some bread and butter in a basket, along with a few of those buttery cakes, so she could take it to Cullen’s office. He wasn’t in his office when she arrived however. Deciding to wait for him, she sat atop his desk, flipping through an adventure volume that he had left out to pass the time before he came back, so they may sort this all out. She began to wonder if she had been a little harsh on him as she skimmed the pages. He was trying to do his best. But he had to know, she was there for him.

Cullen tended to leave letters in books, and as she began to flip through it, simultaneously biting into a butter cake, one from Mia fell out. She didn’t read all the way through it, as going through someone’s letters was a bit of an invasion of privacy, but she caught one sentence as she returned it to its home in the pages of the book. _Any day now._

Branson and his wife, with a baby on the way. Cullen was going to be an uncle, any day now. He spoke of his excitement to here, now and then. Uncle Cullen certainly had a nice ring to it.

She began to plot out a trip. Perhaps she could invite his family to Skyhold some time after the baby was born. Certainly, that would make him happy.

“Lydia?”

Startled, the book fell to the floor. Stuffing the last bite of cake in her mouth, she got up from the desk and dusted off the crumbs. She never failed at making a fool of herself in front of the people she never wanted to be in the same room with. It figured her father would worm his way in.

“Hi,” she greeted stiffly, before common sense hit her. “Wait a minute. Why are you in Cullen’s office?”

“Why are you?” he countered.

“He’s my commander!”

“And other things as well, I hear. Really Lydia. I do wonder. What is it with you and templars?”

“I don’t like Cullen because he was a templar,” Lydia said, more annoyed than angry. “I am with Cullen because he’s Cullen.”

“Son of a farmer, done well for himself,” he commented, pacing to the side, arms crossed. The Trevelyans were an established family, but still, her father dressed like “fake royalty,” a phrase her mother often reserved for the overly gaudy Orlesians. Lydia never remembered her father dressing this way before, but he certainly was now, preening himself the entire way. He wore white breeches with brown boots that hit his knee, and a riding coat that was royal blue and embroidered, and utterly ill fit for the activity. Leliana made jabs at Lady Cambienne at the Winter Palace, with her gaudy dancing slippers and how wearing them was a vulgar display of wealth. Leliana would have said the same thing about her father’s coat, and gold trimmed belt that was cinched to fit his waist. He must have been in his late fifties as well, and he was still wearing something so utterly ridiculous.

“It doesn’t matter where he came from,” Lydia said, referring back to the comment her father made about his origins.

“Hm, yes,” her father said. “Still. Another templar.”

“Maker, stop harping on about that!” Lydia exclaimed. “I lived in a Circle, where there were mages and templars. You don’t think that it has never been done before? And Cullen and I have been through so much. That is only two men I have cared for. Does it matter where they have come from?”

“And not me?”

When she seethed, he retracted, not expecting her to answer. Good. It was hard to explain that whatever semblance of love she may or may not have felt for her father obliterated when he said what he said.

“You know,” her father began, once more pacing. “When you were all of six years old, your mother used to take you the market. There was a templar there who did the patrols. Ser Rowan. Red hair. Maker, you fancied him greatly. And now…”

“Father. It really isn’t that funny. No one’s life story should be determined by the people they have had feelings for.”

“Ah, I know, I know, I am sorry,” he apologized, and Lydia felt grateful enough for that.

Standing and seething, it came as a shock how perfectly calm she was. She may not have liked her father’s company, but she didn’t feel the need to run, maim, or shout a litany of curses at him either. Their relationship was damaged, yes, but for the first time, she didn’t feel as though it was damaged beyond all repair.

Yet repairs took work, and it was work she was not willing to do. Not at all.

“I noticed you referred to me as your father,” he brought up, leaning against Cullen’s bookshelves. It felt so strange to see him do that. Many times, she had been up against that bookcase, Cullen leaving her dizzy with kisses.

“And?”

He shrugged. “Well. Maybe…”

“You don’t think this all is fixed now, do you?” She demanded. “It isn’t. Not at all.”

“I know that,” he defended, putting his hands up, as if he was afraid she would spit fire at him. “Lydia. Listen. All I wanted was to begin again, when I came. Repair.”

“I don’t know if that’s possible,” she admitted.

“I just wanted you to know that I am willing to try.”

The silence was almost overwhelming, that she became relieved when he began prattling again, this time about dancing, and how she was glad she kept it up.

“You were very skilled, when you were a little girl,” her father said. “I’d like to see you again.”

“Perhaps someday soon.”

“Perhaps,” he echoed.

Cullen walked in then, sans mantle and sans most of his armor, sword in hand and sweaty. Training. Lydia should have known. He often trained when he was stressed. “Lydia,” he greeted, surprised to see her, before glancing at her father, more than a little confused. Though Lydia expected that she would have to tell her father to leave them alone, he didn’t say anything, and ended up leaving, with only a trite, “Talk to you later.”

“I suppose he just wants to remind me he’s here,” Lydia said. “Forget that though. I want to apologize, if I was hard on you, for earlier I mean,” she said. “Really. I’m sorry Cullen.”

“You weren’t hard on me.”

“I worry about you, that’s all. I want you to be all right.”

“I know that,” he said, coming over to her, hands on her hips. “I only...it’s difficult, lately.”

“It hasn’t been easy since after the Winter Palace,” she said, wrapping her arms around him, not caring if he was damp with sweat as she kissed him. He smelled of something distinctly masculine, mingled with his signature elderflower and hints of oakmoss, and she was reminded of why she liked kissing Cullen so much. When they kissed, there was only the heat, and want.

“Listen,” he said, parting for the briefest moment. “Leliana told me. What was done for Elaine.”

“She deserves to be comfortable,” Lydia said. “At least. She’s proven she’s not dangerous to anyone, save herself.”

Cullen nodded, glancing away. And there was Lydia, holding on to him. Telling him once more, this wasn’t his burden to bear alone.

“It feels like it is,” he said. “That’s all. It—oh. Dearest…”

He lifted her chin, so their eyes could meet. “What’s the matter?” he asked.

She didn’t speak, knowing that if she did, she wouldn’t be able to articulate herself correctly. She had stood with him, last night, willing some of his burdens and pain onto her. She could take it, take it all. If there was a Maker, he would have let Lydia had it all. Cullen had enough. That wasn’t however, how things worked.

“I want you to be all right,” she said. “Not go through any unnecessary pain, burdens, or anything else.”

“I’m supposed to be the one that protects you. You shouldn’t have to worry about me.”

“That’s not how it works. We’re together. We protect each other.” She took his hands. “Let me worry about you a little.”

“Alright,” he murmured, and when he kissed her again, there was something ingrained in the way his lips pressed into hers. A neediness, a plea.

“Let me go see Elaine first,” Lydia bade. “Please. I want to meet her.”

He nodded, agreeing, and she was surprised he did not fight with her. But perhaps he was tired of arguing, and tired of everything else. And when she left, she truly wondered if he really was going to let her worry for him, at least a little.

 

* * *

 

 

In the infirmary, guards were stationed around her, though Elaine didn’t know that. According to Sabine, she had woken a few times, but was delirious for the most part. But she had been cleaned and given a proper bed, and once Morrigan’s tonic had been administered, she wasn’t as “feisty.”

“At Dagna’s suggestion a sedative was also put in,” Sabine told Lydia. “She shouldn’t give you any trouble Inquisitor.”

“Sabine, you came from Kirkwall, didn’t you?” Lydia asked. “Can you tell me anything about Elaine?”

Sabine’s side of things was limited, but she explained that Cullen had been the Knight Captain for about five years in Kirkwall before Elaine was stationed in the Gallows. For many years, Sabine gathered that their relationship was strictly professional, but that must have changed after the rebellion began. By that time however, Sabine had moved on.“She was one of the better ones,” Sabine said of Elaine, before saying more.

Lydia didn’t know what to expect when she first laid her eyes her. Elaine was such a pretty name, too harsh to belong to a hardened soldier, more fitting for a fair lady in one of the books Lydia read in the Circle. And when Lydia did lay her eyes on her, laying in her cot, a sense of sorrow, greater than she ever expected to feel, overwhelmed her. Asleep, Lydia saw the woman that Cullen perhaps saw once. Beautiful. Filled with her own hopes. All to be led to this.

What led her to these choices? What tormented her, kept her up at night, and made her think that this was the only way?

“She’s woken on and off, mumbled a few things here and there,” Sabine said. “She—”

“Is awake now.”

The brown eyes that scrutinized her held an intensity, and, if she searched deeper, something softer. Lydia sat down in the chair near her bed, nor so much as looking away. Trying to let her know she was there to help. “Hello Elaine,” Lydia said. “My name is Lydia. I’m—”

“The Inquisitor, I would imagine,” Elaine said. “Hm. Heard about you.”

“I’ve heard about you as well.”

“I’m sure. I’m your prisoner,” Elaine huffed, leaning against the pillows. “You must be the one, right?”

“The one that leads these people?” Lydia asked. “Well, depends on who you ask. If you ask me, it’s really Josephine.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Elaine retorted. “I mean, you’re the one that Cullen is with now?”

Ashamed as she was to admit it, there was a wave of feminine pride. Yes. She and Cullen were a couple, together. She was his woman, he was her man. There was a sense of pride in knowing that. “Yes,” Lydia said, twisting the seam of her shirt in her fingers.

“Huh. Good on him,” Elaine said. “We were all surprised a mage was leading the Inquisition. Surprised to see he went from parroting back Meredith’s ‘don’t treat them like people’ to ‘it’s okay to fuck one.’ Good on him.”

Lydia felt she was in a lake of fire, and even Sabine, carefully standing behind her, shifted in embarrassment. “Cullen wasn’t ever cruel though,” Sabine defended. “And he’s different now. Warmer. He doesn’t believe that.”

“Evidently not, since he’s with this one.” Feebly, Elaine pointed at Lydia. “Do you enjoy him? Sometimes he was such a prude.”

“He’s fine,” Lydia insisted, boiling in embarrassment.

Elaine’s brows raised. “Just fine?”

She had enough. “Elaine. Our relationship is ours.”

“I know, I know. I’m sorry. I just find it amusing. I was his first woman, you know. Didn’t think he had it in him to get another.”

“He certainly does,” Lydia said through gritted teeth.

“It really doesn’t bother you, about him, I mean?”

“It’s not who he was,” Lydia said. “It’s who he is now. Who he wants to be in the future. He’s trying, and when he looks at me…”

“So you stand by his side, no matter what.”

“When I told him I want to be with him, I said I wanted his everything. Yes.”

“At least someone will.”

Sighing, not knowing why, but also thinking why not, Lydia took her hand. “Elaine,” she began. “I want to help you.”

Lydia wasn’t sure what Elaine would do, but strangely, she allowed the gesture, glancing at it as if Lydia had given her a thousand jewels. “You already have,” Elaine said. “Whatever that witch gave me seems to be slowing it. I can still feel it growing, but it’s not as bad. Or as intense. And you did take me out of that hovel, so thanks for that. You must want something in return though, don’t you?”

“If you tell me where Samson is getting his red lyrium, so many lives will be saved.”

Elaine sighed. “Promise me though. If you ever find him, please be easy on him. He’s been through a lot. And he was loyal to me.”

“He hurt a lot of people Elaine.”

“Maddox trusted him too. He saved him.”

“Maddox?” Lydia had never heard that name.

“A tranquil mage, from Kirkwall. Ask Cullen. He’ll know. Or that one over there.”

Lydia glanced at Sabine, who nodded, remembering. “We knew each other,” she said.

“Can you stop hovering elf?” Elaine asked, irritated. “I don’t like hovering.”

“Her name is Sabine,” Lydia said. “She has a name, _human._ ”

“Fine. Sabine," Elaine said, quite begrudgingly. "Please?”

Sabine sought Lydia’s opinion first. When Lydia nodded, thinking it might be a good idea, Sabine left, though she didn’t close the door behind her. Elaine took a long, drawn out breath when she was gone, and when she looked at Lydia, Lydia didn’t see a templar, or the poison lyrium that was in her veins. She saw a friend, wanting to protect someone who meant something to her. But she didn’t know why.

“Why is Samson so important to you?” Lydia asked.

“He was my friend. He still wrote to me. We still tried to protect each other, even after the Order expelled him. Even after…he….” She closed her eyes. “Please. Be as merciful to him as you have been to me. You could have probably found him anyway, without my help. Cullen was always a stubborn mule.”

That at least, was extraordinarily true.

“Please be merciful.”

Lydia nodded. It was the least she could do.

“The Dales,” she said, without any preamble, and Lydia was surprised at how easy this ended up being. “A town called Sarhnia. That’s where the red lyrium is. I don’t know if Samson is still there though.” She let go of Lydia's hand.

“Thank you,” Lydia said. “Really.”

“I didn’t do it for the Inquisition. I didn’t do it for Cullen either. I did it for you. At least you’re loyal to those you care for.”

She didn’t know how to answer that.

“I tried to break away you know, from the lyrium, like Cullen said he was going to. I wasn’t strong enough,” Elaine said, sighing. “He offered to take me here too, you know. I didn’t want to. Too afraid. Or maybe, I was sad Cullen didn’t beg me to come with him. I told him ‘no,’ and all he said was he understood. He didn’t fight me. That’s when I knew he didn’t love me.” As best as she could, she inched herself closer. “I hope he loves you. Ah…I can see it. He does. Does he tell you?”

“He doesn’t need to,” Lydia said.

“I thought the same thing. He doesn’t need to say it. He must, because he chooses to lay with me. "I can save him from his own demons with this." But you must know how it goes. You must…oh. Inquisitor. Lydia.”

It was strange, how Elaine said her name. It could even have been called sweet. “Elaine,” Lydia said in turn, her eyes downcast. “I don’t…that was never…”

“Women. We sometimes think that we can save the men we care for. But we have to save ourselves first. Ah. Who am I joking. You must already be saved. You’re a strong woman. I can tell.”

She closed her eyes, resting against the pillow. When she didn’t say anything, Lydia assumed she had begun to fall asleep. Then, a sly, knowing smile crossed Elaine’s lips, a smile that Lydia didn’t think she liked.

And it only took her a moment to find out why.

“Asher,” she murmured, still having that sly and knowing smile, even as she drifted off to the fade. “He was wrong about you.”

There was nothing then, but the spinning world, as Elaine drifted back into the unconscious. 


	35. Guilt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, sorry for the bit of the extended wait. Sadly this will probably be the norm from now on, but I will work towards the end, no worries.

There was a present, where they should have been, and there was a past. Lydia was living in the past.

Conveniently, Elaine had drifted back into the unconscious, rendering her obviously unable to say anything else. She had been that way for one full day, and Sabine, Morrigan, and Dagna all worried that her time was running out. They weren’t even sure Elaine would wake up again.

“She has to wake up,” Lydia said, to both Cullen, herself, and perhaps the Maker as well, standing by the fire in her quarters, with her arms crossed, the thousand questions on her mind incessant since Elaine told her that day. They were questions she did not voice to Cullen, though it was safe to assume it was because they were the same questions he had. The simple, yet complicated question: _how?_

 _I moved on,_ Lydia said when she first told him, hours ago. Night had since fallen. _But if he is a red templar, if…Oh Cullen, what can I do? How?_

“How?” she asked. “Cullen. I don’t know. I don’t—"

“Lydia,” Cullen said at last, placing his hand on her shoulder. The food and tea he brought to her quarters were cold, and she had said hardly anything, living in the past as she was. “Perhaps she found out somehow, knew him maybe before the Conclave, and he’s not—”

Yet he couldn’t even finish it, because, he knew it couldn’t be true. Elaine’s first station after her training and vigil was Kirkwall. And she had always been very clear to him, she had no other friends or family. Knew no one, had no one. Only sometimes, it seemed to make her sad.

“Maybe he wasn’t turned,” Lydia said feebly, her hands on the mantle of the hearth, leaning against it. “Maybe…”

He could tell she was trying to convince herself, but before he could say anything, her hands slapped against the mantle, a new idea forming. “Maybe we can find him, like we found Elaine,” she said. “If he truly is...turned…” she grimaced at the thought. “Well. If I couldn’t save him then, I want to be able to save him now, some way. I can do that, right? Have closure?”

It was such a simple thing, closure. Yet more difficult to get than anyone would have ever suspected. “We don’t know where he is,” Cullen said.

“Maybe Elaine knows. I have to go to her again. But... _oh._.."

She buried herself into him, as if he could shield her from everything that ever existed. He held onto her, knowing he couldn’t, but trying all the same. “I’ve sent people to their death before. I’ve killed,” she said, helpless and pleading. “But it’s different with her. I can see her choices. What could have been.”

He could too. That was why it hurt so much, because he didn’t have to think or dream up scenarios and ways things could have ended up differently. With Elaine they were obvious, all the more so because he thought he would always know her and her choices. How wrong he was.

She pressed her lips to his ear, kissed him tenderly, willing the two of them to lay together. He wanted to. Maker, he did, more than anything. But he wanted to touch her, make love to her, without seeing. Without remembering, imagining what could have been. And she looked radiant by the fire, touched by the glow. She took his breath away, and maybe that would have been enough. There was nothing he wanted more than for her to be swept away. The both of them, together. Wonderfully lost along the tides.

“I want…” he whispered, caressing her hair. “I want…”

To forget, forget that there was anything else in this blighted world but the two of them. “I want it too,” she said, tugging at the seam of his shirt. She gave him a kiss that was both soft and loving, one he answered back with a fervor. Eventually he felt the back of her large, expansive bed behind his knees. He tried to nudge her around, bring her to atop the bed so he may blanket over her body as they had before, but she remained rooted, her hands on his shoulders, nudging him down.

“Lydia?” he asked. “What are you—”

“I…”

She stopped her ministrations, suddenly finding the wall very interesting. “What’s the matter?” he asked her.

“There’s something I want to do,” she said. “You know.”

He didn’t. “Why are you blushing?”

“I’m not blushing,” she stammered, though her hands flew to her cheeks anyway. “Just, can you lay down for me?”

There was the brief flickering of fear, fear that something would happen, and he would remember either Elaine or Kinloch, fear that she would peel off his shirt and see the scars on his wrist and ask. Frankly it was a miracle she hadn’t already. Or maybe she knew he didn't want to be asked.

A kiss on his cheek brought him back. “Let’s just sleep, alright?”

In thanks, he kissed her tenderly before they crawled into the bed. Her touches were meant to comfort and not arouse, and he kept an arm around her, even as he began to drift off. But Maker, he wanted to, wanted to so much he was trembling with want, want and fear that he would never be able to do this one simple thing without a million intrusive thoughts. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t before, but why was it with Lydia that all his blighted insecurities came back? Was it because he loved her, and he couldn’t? It should have been easier, because he did love her. Was it because he couldn’t tell her then? He wanted to, to be able to say “I love you,” had wanted it since forever. He just couldn’t, not when everything was falling apart, and they needed to work through it, find closure. He couldn't say it when they were both living in the past.

He drew careful and rhythmic circles around her back. “In the morning we can figure this out,” he said. “Asher. Elaine…”

“Not now Cullen. Please.”

“I'm sorry." ”

She was halfway to dreams. “I just want to be held now.”

“I do too.”

“I like it, when it’s just this. Though sometimes more is nice.”

He grinned. “It is.”

“I was a little scared earlier, you know.”

“About Asher?” he asked.

“That’s not what I was talking about. I mean, I want…to give you something. Let you know how much I adore you, and… _hm_. Never mind. Goodnight.”

She was asleep within five minutes, leaving him wondering what she could possibly give him, when simply having her near was enough. He drifted wondering, and he felt as though he was barely asleep for thirty minutes when he heard the knocking. He was surprised it didn’t wake Lydia, but she was curled to the side, deep in sleep and he didn’t wonder any further. There was only one thing that it could have been,

Careful not to wake her, he climbed out of the bed, pulling on his boots and heading over to the door. “Elaine?” he asked the messenger.

A nod. “Hurry. She’s drifting, in and out.”

Lydia was still asleep. He thought about waking her, for the briefest moment. Then he gently closed the door behind him, and made his way to the infirmary, where Elaine was only slightly surprised to see him.

“You came,” she announced, looking much better than she did the last time he saw her. Almost normal, even, but not enough to pretend that she was well. She was still so pale, and still so haunted in her eyes. But better, at least.

He always heard it became better before it became much worse. Yet there was still that bit of hope, that thought. That perhaps—

He remembered why he came. “Asher,” he said. “He was supposed to be dead.”

Her smile was typical Elaine, the Elaine he remembered. It relieved him, to see flashes of her old self. The one that he saw in her shift in his room, knowing she was drinking far too much, but not care, and encouraging him to do the same. Sometimes he even gave in.

“Where is she?” Elaine asked in turn, referring to Lydia. “Couldn’t stand to see me again?”

“Does it matter?” Cullen asked, hating this avoidance of questions. She had always done that though, avoided questions with questions, making him realize how much of a miracle it was she had actually revealed where the red lyrium was. If they managed to get anything else out of her, that would be a second miracle.

“Ah. Keeping secrets from her,” Elaine said. “That’s not good.”

“I am trying,” he said, “to protect her. It’s not about secrets.”

And yet that seemed to amuse her most of all. “She doesn’t need protecting,” Elaine said. “She wants to protect you. She wants to save you from you demons. It’s a thing women sometimes do. We can’t help it.”

From the way she was talking, she was making it seem like Lydia regarded him as some sort of project that could be fixed, and she said it so nonchalantly as well. But that was never how he felt about their relationship. He stood by her side, and though professionally she was his superior, in their own relationship, he was her equal. They were together, side by side, and they—

Give me your burdens, she said to him on the battlements. Was that her, trying to fix him, and put him together again?

“Asher,” Elaine said, reminding him why he came. “He’s not dead. Clearly. Or wasn’t last I saw him. He would tell me about her sometimes. Called her a kitten. Funny he called her that, she doesn’t act like a kitten. Said he was surprised that this happened to her, being the Inquisitor. She was always such a gentle, scared thing at the Circle. But she really isn’t. You know that too, I would imagine. He was wrong.”

“Elaine. Asher was supposed to go to the Conclave. Everyone who attended the conclave is dead, save one.” Cullen said.

“He didn’t go, obviously,” she said, dripping with sarcasm, and he was struck by how easily it still came to her, this sarcasm, even when she was on the brink of madness. “He went to Therinfal,” she continued. “He was there to give the lyrium to them. Made himself Samson’s little helper. He hates the chantry almost as much as I do, you know.”

There was quiet, as Elaine gazed at him. Quiet, that was slowly being drowned by a rage. “He…he was there, at Therinfal?” Cullen demanded. “He—"

“He’s probably already dead,” Elaine said. “He was there with us during the raid. Rylen managed to get him pretty good. Didn’t know who he was though. I’m sure if he did he would have brought him here too.”

“No one saw him?”

“I don’t know if they did or not. But your soldiers got me, Rylen was hurt, and he looked like he was goner from where I was standing.”

There were so many other questions. Was Asher there, during the attack on Haven? Why didn’t he go into the Conclave in the first place? Why did he choose to help Samson?  
Was he really dead?

Elaine cried out, which sent Sabine rushing toward her, pressing a cool compress over her head. “It’s growing,” Sabine said, under her breath wincing. “It…

“I can feel it you dolt! I know it’s growing! You don’t have to talk under your breath! This is what happens to us all if we take it. We go mad!”

“You saw what happened to Meredith,” Cullen said. “Did you hate the chantry this much Elaine?”

“Yes,” she spat. “Yes.”

The silence was heavy.

“We have more of the tonic,” Sabine said, eventually breaking it. “Would you like...?”

“No,” she stated, her voice raising. “No. I don’t. Just…” she sighed. “Cullen. I told you everything I know, all right? Asher was with Samson before I got there. I don’t know what he did before, all I know was he was supposed to go to the conclave, but he didn’t, and his “kitten” was now the Inquisitor. We talked a lot. Okay? It was nice to talk, to have a family again. But he’s probably dead now, or close to it. Maybe he went back to Therinfal, I don’t know. But more likely he’s dead. It would have happened anyway, the raid or not. We didn’t take to the lyrium like Samson could.”

“Elaine…”

“You need to know I’m sorry.”

It took a moment to register. “You’re…sorry?” he asked, still not believing. “After everything that happened, you’re…sorry?”

“Yes,” she said, rather amused, as she motioned for him to sit down, weak and feeble as she was. He had to sit for her. “Elaine…”

“I’m sorry I was cruel, or rude before,” she confessed. “I guess that’s what a good bed can do for someone…But I understand, alright? Throw the madwoman in the cell. I get it”

When she took his hand, and faintly squeezed his fingers, he squeezed back. “I said you weren’t loyal before,” Elaine said. “But you had moved on. There’s loyalty, and then there’s moving on. I’m happy you learned to move on from where you were before. That was always your fear. And maybe I was jealous. I was too afraid.”

Sometimes he wondered. Sometimes he still thought he was that same person. But he wasn’t. He wasn’t. He had to remind himself of that.

“I’ll try not to be afraid anymore,” she said.

“You’re here,” Cullen said. “You’re telling us everything you know. That’s not being afraid. That’s being brave.”

She smiled. “I hope so.”” She muttered. “Goodnight now, Cullen. Goodnight.”

She drifted off, to the unconscious once more. Goodnight, she said, though it was already early morning.

“Goodnight Elaine,” Cullen murmured.

 

* * *

 

“I woke up and you weren’t here.”

Cullen stared at the fire, not saying anything, and she knew that Elaine had awakened and he went to her. “Why didn’t you wake me?” she asked, and when he still didn’t speak, she came near him. “You should have,” she said, more exasperated than angry. “I know what I said, but—”

“She’s fading,” he said. “I’m not sure how much longer she has. I’m sorry I didn’t wake you, but…Forgive me.”

She was afraid to ask, but she did anyway. “Did she say anything about him?”

“Not much, before she fell back again,” Cullen said. “And not much that we couldn’t have already figured out. He was with Samson, worked for him, and—”

“And he didn’t go into the conclave,” she finished. “But we don’t know what the full extent of their relationship was, or why he was with Samson, or anything. Maybe he’s out there, maybe—”

“Lydia, I wish I could tell you he’s all right,” he said. “But Elaine said he was with them during the raid, when Rylen was injured. She said it herself. He’s probably not alive anymore.”

“Are you saying that because you don’t want him to be alive?”

That left him flabbergasted. “No,” he said, though he didn’t say it quickly enough. “But Lydia, he allied himself with Samson. Elaine said he became his helper, and—"

“He saved me once,” she reiterated. “Cullen. We have to go find him.”

“He’s probably not alive!”

“And once I was probably not alive, but you found me in the snow. And if you didn’t, I wouldn’t be here now. If there’s a chance, I have to take it.”

“If he returned, he returned to Therinfal. But I cannot send more men to Therinfal Lydia. I’m sorry. I need to send men to the Dales, to Sahrnia, and Leliana's people-”

“But he deserves this, at least,” she begged. “Cullen…”

“It’s not feasible, to go on a manhunt for one man, a red templar at that. If he has done what Elaine says he has done, he has turned his back on his people. I can’t allow that.”

She felt fire at her fingertips. “They were never his people,” she hissed.

Cullen’s eyes were hard. “He took the vows.”

“Against his will,” she said. “He never wanted this. Just like Elaine didn’t.”

“It doesn’t make it right.”

She knew that. She knew it was wrong, that she just forget him and move on, but she remembered. Because there was good, once with him. Kisses that wouldn’t be as rough or needy, kisses that were even sweet. Words of reassurance, and something to look forward to when there was nothing else. So many things in her life were never constants. But for that time, Asher was.

“You told me to forget the past,” Cullen said, bringing Lydia to the present. “Be free of the past.”

“He should be saved.”

“Lydia,” Cullen said. “Let him go.”

She tried, she was trying. It wasn’t working. “I can’t,” she murmured.

“Don’t you remember what you said to me?” he asked. “About the past?”

“I know. I’m a hypocrite. Fuck the past, fuck the past. But I didn’t...” still, she did not look at him. “He meant something to me once. Didn’t Elaine to you?”

“Yes,” Cullen admitted. “But Asher took advantage of you. I told you that before.”

“He saved me too,” she stood shoulder to shoulder with him. “That scar that I have. I would have had another one, right here.” She drew a line across her cheek. “He saved me.”

“He was in a position of power, and he abused it.”

“I wanted him,” she said. “I did!”

“That doesn’t make it right.”

“If I didn’t go to the conclave, if I agreed with him and just left, maybe this wouldn’t even have happened.”

“Would we have met?”

There were a thousand maybes, a thousand things that could have happened, but didn’t. Would we have met? He asked, as easily as he asked her the time. She knew it then. Knew that she couldn’t be concerned with what ifs. She knew she would have done every step, made every choice she made before, if she knew it led her to him.  
She chose him. She chose Cullen. She would have, had Asher been with her now. But Asher had made other choices.

“I don’t know if we would have met had I not been there,” she said. “But we did. We did, and we’re here now and—”

“And what?” he prompted, with a gentleness she didn’t deserve.

“And I’m tired,” she said, too weary. From everything. Especially herself.

And there he was, showing a tenderness she didn’t think she deserved, cradling her face. Nestling his forehead against hers. “Come to bed,” he murmured. “Let’s think about it tomorrow, alright?”

He tucked her in bed, crawling in next to her afterward. Neither kissing or asking for more, merely reminding her that he was there, and he would not leave, so long as she wanted him near.

"Lydia?" 

"Yes?" 

"Never mind," he said. "It's not important."

She got the feeling it was, but she didn't press it. She also hoped he knew, before she drifted off, that no matter what happened, she was glad she was by his side. She wished she could show him so much she dreamed of it when she fell asleep. She became the lioness, throwing him down onto the bed, making him moan with pleasure the same way he had done to her, but Asher was by her side, laughing and calling her kitten.

 _It shouldn’t ever have surprised me that this happened to you,_ she said in the dream.

_No. It shouldn’t have._

“Lydia?”

When she woke, Cullen was hovering over her, already fully dressed and ready for the day. It must have been late morning, but it certainly didn’t feel that way. “Don’t leave without kissing me,” she said.

He leaned down for the tenderest press of the lips, to her cheek, her forehead, and eventually, at last, her lips.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled. “For everything. Now stay.”

“Later, I’ll be here,” he promised. “You rest. I’ll Josephine and Leliana their discussions can wait. They’ll understand.”

“Are you sure?”

He chuckled. “Well, they’ll want to talk eventually. But it can happen later. It is your fault you know,” he teased. “You wanted the fete.”

“Please stay.”

Another kiss. “Tonight I’m yours. Then we can talk.”

She didn’t know if she should have laughed or cried. Talking was not what she had in mind. At all. She was done talking about Elaine, or Asher, or anything else. She didn’t want to talk. She wanted to make up and stop remembering, and wishing things had been different. She wanted Cullen everywhere, wanted the two of them to fuck until everything else was gone and away. But Cullen wasn't there, so she slept. In the Circle she slept often after Asher left, and after her father turned her aside. It was easy because in sleep, she didn’t have to think about anything at all. It was only later that the nightmares came, and sleeping wasn’t as easy. It was still better than being awake, where she had to think, and ruminate, and wonder. In sleep, she was never guilty, never was trapped on a precipice. She didn’t have to stare at her ceiling and wonder if things could have been different. It just wasn’t wondering if things would have been different anymore. It was the guilt of her choices, even if they made choices in turn that could have lead somewhere else. She dreamed though, of course she dreamed. When she did, Asher mocked her.

Eventually, hunger drove her to the kitchens. Fresh tea and bread were waiting for her when she went in, and after eating she planned on another nap, deciding to take her chances when it came to having another dream. She was in the great hall though when she ran into Josephine.

“Inquisitor, I promise, only one moment of your time. I know you aren’t feeling well.”

“Putting it mildly.”

Josephine was sympathetic, at least. “I only wanted to ask about your speech. Have you thought of it?”

“It’s been a day,” Lydia piped.

“I know, but—"

“Hey. Ruffles. Whatever Fire comes up with, I’m sure it’ll have everyone talking.”

Lydia wasn’t sure she was hearing it right, or seeing either. So many times she look towards Varric’s usual spot by the fire and never saw him. She wished he was there, countless times.

“Why are you so surprised?” Varric asked, tankard of mead in hand. “I heard there was a party. I can’t miss that.”

She ran to his open arms.

 

* * *

 

“Shit. The way things are going, they almost seem worse than they were when you first fell out of the fade.”

“I feel like I have fallen out of the fade,” Lydia said, taking a swig of honey mead. She had been sitting there for she wasn’t sure how long. At least an hour. Maybe two, talking and catching up, the mead making her say things she wasn’t sure she would have said otherwise. “First my father, then Elaine, and then Asher. It’s like the past decided to slap us both in the face. I know in my heart I shouldn’t want to go after him, but—”

“There’s still something there, I get it,” Varric said. “You just want closure.”

She nodded. “But I have to accept that I probably won’t get it. It’s just…he meant something once. I know what Cullen says is right. He did…take advantage of me.” She hated admitting it, that someone would take advantage of her. When she was a girl she promised her mother that she would always see the strength inside of her, yet she was so blinded by want that she didn’t know. And then there was Cullen, who was living in the past like she knew she was, thinking about all the what ifs with Elaine, and doubting about the two of them the whole time. Still, she was unsure. Still she wasn’t sure how she could make him believe.

“How’s Curly taking things?” Varric asked, as if on cue.

She wished she knew. “I just want him to be better,” she said, a little helplessly.

“Ah, Curly’s always been stuck in his own head,” Varric quipped. “But I’m sure if anyone can make him feel better, it’s you. Shit. I wondered about the two of you. She would have never got over it.”

When it became quiet, Varric came hear her, his hand on her shoulder. “Ah, Fire. Lydia,” he muttered. “Don’t get so sad, alright?”

He rubbed her shoulder as she wiped away that single tear. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Is Fenris…?”

“He’s not alone. I promise.”

She felt a little at ease, though it was only marginal, and there was already so much other guilt. Varric though sought to make her laugh, telling her that he did in fact, get to meet her father already. He wanted his copy of _Hard in Hightown_ signed.

She never laughed harder. “That would be my father, wouldn’t it?” Lydia said, wiping away tears of laughter now. “Shit.”

“Maybe he really is just here to make amends.”

“Maybe,” Lydia said, toying with her fingers. “Maybe I should write to my brother, see what he thinks.” Frankly it was a little shocking her father hadn’t mentioned Aedan, now that she thought of it. Then again, he was in boarding school when Lydia was a child. She hardly saw him, that most of the time she could believe she was the only child. She didn’t hear from Aedan much growing up either. And when she was in the Circle, he wrote to her one time, to tell her what happened to their mother. The last thing she heard was passed on from Josephine, apparently, he had an interest in visiting her as well. Though if he would actually come, that was a different story.

She hardly knew Aedan. For all she knew, he would want nothing to do with her. Maybe he just wanted what she could do for him, as she often imagined that’s what her father wanted.

“It’s good to have you here Varric,” Lydia said, not wanting to devout anymore of her time thinking, just wanting to simply be. “I’ve missed you.”

“Missed you too. It was good to catch up on all the things I missed. A bit of everything it seems, right?”

She chuckled. “Right.”

It was evening time. Cullen would be coming back soon, as he promised he would. She wondered if he saw Elaine again. He wouldn’t be in any mood if he did. Then again, they hadn’t been, lately, though she ached for him. She tried not to think of his body, or his mouth. His hands neither, holding and grasping flesh, not wanting to let a single part of her be lavished with his hungry mouth or wandering hands. She didn't think of his his mouth, lavishing the most intimate parts of her either, and how it set her into a fire she never knew existed, different and far better than her magic ever could be. It was a warmth that tingled, asked questions that only he could answer.

“You’ll know what to do,” Varric assured her. “With everything. I know. Fire always finds a way.”

“So does water, I am told.”

He smirked. “You two deserve some happiness, you know. Even when shit falls apart.”

“It’s not easy for him to forget.” It wasn’t easy for her to forget either sometimes.

“Sometimes people need a push,” Varric said.

She thought about quite a lot as evening fell.

 

* * *

 

 

A few things were toying around his mind that day.

The healers said Elaine was stable, and sleeping peacefully, and there was really nothing else to be done, and there was no telling when it would happen, if it even was to happen soon. From Dagna’s studies, it was hard to say and it depended on the person. Maybe it would have been a mercy, the sooner it happened. He tried not to feel guilty, but it was far easier said than done. That was the first thing on his mind.

The second was Asher too, and what Lydia said. He knew the hesitation in her voice, the way she couldn’t fully look him in the eye and say that she had forgotten him. It wasn’t as though he expected or even wanted her to fully forget him, but he supposed he wanted this to never happen. If he couldn’t have that, he at least wanted Lydia to look at him in the eye and tell him that Asher no longer had any bearing on the now, and she wouldn’t press the subject of trying to find him.

Somewhere in the recesses of his mind, he must have known it was unfair, that he received closure with Elaine, when she wasn’t going to get one with Asher. Life is hardly fair, Meredith told him once. One of the many things she said as she led him on.

That wasn’t the only things he thought about. Though he tried to deny it, he couldn’t stop thinking about what Elaine said, about him and Lydia, and how she was trying to save him.

She was fond of him, cared a great deal, but he couldn’t ask her to love him. No one could ask another for their love. He couldn’t spring it on her, _I love you_ , not when he didn’t know what she would say. Yet there was the thought, and the wonder. Was her link with him, her desire to have him by her side, and try with her, was it because she felt as though she could make him a better man? Did she only want to save him, from whatever it was he needed saving from?

He stood by her side and felt every bit her equal, when they weren’t in the war room, anyway. But—

He wanted to be loved, yes. Or at the very least, be fond of. But if she truly wanted to save him, and that was the basis of her adoration, did that also mean that there was no respect?

Why was he doubting? She had never have given him any cause to doubt. It all had to be Elaine, because he certainly did not doubt anything when she fell into arms after he slipped into her quarters. Not when she was kissing him, either. She felt like fire and velvet, and her lips tasted like sparks from a flame, warm and welcoming and the only thing that made sense in this fucking place. There was no Elaine, and there was no Asher, no past at all now. There was Cullen, and there was Lydia, and there was the heat. Or perhaps, it was just a desire to want everything else to disappear, and this was the best way.

“Let’s forget,” she beckoned, already unbuckling his armor. “For a while.”

“Yes,” he murmured, knowing he would do almost anything she asked.

They were almost bare. She was in nothing save her flimsy silk nightgown, and he was in his undershirt and breeches. “I thought,” she said, undoing the buttons. “Well. I wasn’t sure…”

“Shhhhh.” He silenced her with a kiss, one where lips melted into lips and fingers wove through her hair as he cradled her face. A better man might have sat her down, allowed them to speak and work through their dilemma before their kiss and anything else, but Cullen was always helpless when there was a way for a temporary escape that could make him forget for a while. First it was with the lyrium. Then it was with Elaine, though she always had to coax him. Now, it was with Lydia, and Lydia was the most intoxicating drug of them all.

When they were on the bed, she peeled away his shirt, and as he hovered her, eyes hungrily devoured him. Saw the scars, and didn’t care. Saw Cullen, and perhaps she saw the man she wanted to save. There was no time to think of it, because her arms were coiled around his neck, and her eager lips were meeting and parting with his, leaving him in a hazy cloud, even as she pulled him to his back. A palm was grabbing and stroking flesh, the scars and sinews of his chest and abdomen and just lightly brushing against nipples, that he barely had time to think about covering his wrists, or anything else other than that her lips were there, right under his pulse point, eliciting moans and rasps from him that no one else before could have.

“Lyd…” he murmured, as she continued her path down his chest. The ends of her hair tickled his chest, her fingertips at the seam of his breeches. Kisses were paved along his abdomen, and the sparse hair there.

His breathing hitched. This was too much, he couldn’t—

She sensed something was wrong. “What’s the matter?” she asked, stopping. “Do you—”

He felt light headed, tingling with want. “You don’t have—if you don’t want…”

“I do. There's something I want to give you. But if you want me to stop…”

“No. I don’t want you to stop.”

She cracked a grin, trailing a path with the tip of her finger down his abdomen and lower, barely enough to satiate, but more than enough to further arouse him. He never really thought of this in his fevered dreams and fantasies before their promise on the battlements, something about the image of her using her mouth too full of sin. Just the brief flash of the image was enough to further arouse him, even as she still left teasing kisses. He longed to rub his cock, abate it if only a little, but he remained rooted to the bed and unable to move, mesmerized as he was by Lydia next to his legs, pulling down his breeches and smalls. There was one last protest of I never expected this, one last you don’t have…but he was in her mouth, and everything remained unsaid.

The sight of her eyes, peaking at him and seeking approval was something his fevered imaginings could never fully recreate or even comprehend, but when she did peak at him, the sight of the blue, with her mouth wrapped around him sent him nearly coming in her mouth. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed like this, Lydia with mouth and hands that wandered the whole while, and the blue sea, but when he tried to speak, warning her he was close, words could not form, only heady breaths and sighs that egged her on. So he tugged on her hair, willing her to kiss him, because he didn’t want to come yet, wanted this dream to continue, wanted to bury himself inside her…

She was on her back now, and he was gripping her legs, her breasts, every part of her that he loved and was not covered by the nightgown she never bothered to take off as he brought her over the edge with his mouth. Her taste was an addiction, a drug, and he still licked her as her peak rode out. This was safer. She deserved pleasure, more so than he did. It was too much, her using her mouth on him. Almost too overwhelming, And being buried inside her…

 _Would this be our first time?_  her eyes asked him as she came back from the dream, though it was rather silly to think that this time, or the times before hadn’t been meaningful because there wasn’t that final thing. He covered her again, kissed and grasped her body.

“I want you…” she pleaded, holding onto him. “I want us…”

“We don’t have…” How could he tell her he wanted nothing but the two of them their first time? How even now, he still thought of Elaine, and the demon in Kinloch...and Lydia trying to save him from everything all the while…save him from that, though she didn't know.

“You’re trembling again.”

He closed his eyes, bit back the memories as she wrapped her arms around him. Would he ever be with her and not forget?

“I’m alright,” he said. “I’m alright.”

“Lay down.”

He obeyed. Her hand was on him, stroking lightly, eyes seeking an approval that he gave. He gasped when once again she took him in her mouth, slow and deliberate with every fleck of tongue, and even though he tried warn her, tell he shouldn’t have to spill in her mouth, he was grasping and tugging her hair, coming and filling her mouth and floating. And everything was warm and right, and there was nothing but the two of them, even how brief that moment of forgetfulness was. Too brief.

He must have nodded off for a bit, for when he was lucid again, Lydia was curled to his side. She kissed his forehead, when she saw him stir.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled. “I wanted…well. I wanted to do that for a while, and I was worried I would do it wrong. I wanted us to talk about it before too, and other things, but…”

“I would have told you to stop if I didn’t want it,” he promised her.

“I wanted us to forget. Just be together. Without anything else.”

“I did too.”

“Did you forget?”

“For a little,” he confessed.

She asked him if something was wrong, and not being able to help it, he asked in turn. “When you’re with me, do you ever think of saving me?”

The softness that was there earlier dissipated when she told him she didn’t know what she meant. A puzzlement. And, an anger? He swallowed. “Asher. You want to save him. You want to save me too?”

She closed her eyes, and he knew he should have never mentioned it. Even when she told him it wasn’t about her wanting to save him. It never was. It was about her wanting to share his burdens, his winter. Because he already saved himself.

He finally knew she respected him. But he couldn’t tell her it wasn’t completely true. Couldn’t say she shouldn’t have, because he couldn’t save himself from his thoughts or memories. Not when they wouldn’t leave.

“I believe you,” he promised her. “I know it. I’m sorry.”

“Things haven’t been the same, since this. And listen, I know. I know you’re right about him, alright? But I want closure. That’s all. Even though I know I have to live without it.”

“I’m so sorry,” he murmured, meaning it.

“We’re together,” she said. “I’ll be fine.”

“You’re so beautiful.”

It perhaps wasn’t the best thing to say, or even the right thing, but she kissed him all the same, and there was a desperation in her lips. A plea. “Cullen,” she whispered. “You remember…other things, when we’re together like this?”

“It comes and goes,” he admitted. “Someday it won’t. I’ll forget.”

“If we’re together, and you want to ever stop…”

“I know.”

Her eyes drifted to the scars on his wrists, the ones he never wanted her to see. But she didn’t say anything, and wrapped her arms around him. And though he knew that there was no closure, not really with Elaine, or Asher, the memories, or anything else, and even though he still felt as though nothing was right, he could fool himself into thinking that this one moment could have been.

She kissed him again, making him realize he was wrong before. It was. But that was before he slept, and the nightmares came, worse than they had been in a long while. Kinloch, Kirkwall. It didn’t matter. They were the same. And when he woke, Lydia trying to buffer him back and tell him that he wasn’t back there. He tried to believe, but it was harder today. And harder it became, when he walked into the infirmary, and they told him she was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> they'll get better eventually, I promise.


	36. Breathe

_Dear Lydia,_

_It’s only been three days since you left. You don’t need to write a letter every day, telling me where you are. Leliana will be angry we tired her ravens, and I’m afraid I just got all the letters now anyway. Though, I do like to hear from you._

_I hope you’re well. I am well too, I suppose. Better, at least. I think._

_Cullen._

 

_Dear Cullen,_

_I just got your letter. We’ve dealt with red lyrium here. Bianca is an interesting character, though I didn’t appreciate the last things she said to me. After the fete, I’ll go to the Dales, and there will be no more red lyrium on this continent, hopefully._

_I know I told you before, but I wanted to tell you again. It’s also much easier to explain it in writing. You were right about Asher, I knew that, but didn’t want to admit it. He’s gone, and he’s in the past now. You matter to me, and we are together. I never wanted to save you, you saved yourself. I have always known that, alright? And I don’t think I believe you’re well. Your letter would have been longer if that were true._

She blotted that last part out before she sent it, sitting in the camp in the Hinterlands before sealing the letter and sending it off. Sex didn't make the two of them any better, she wasn't sure why copious letters would either. It should have been easy enough to learn, but whether it was her naivety, the endless list of things that shouldn’t have happened but happened anyway, or her unparalleled desire to weave through time and make everything that happened with Elaine and Asher disappear so they never had to go through it, the truth that sex didn’t make anything disappear alluded Lydia. Writing should have made her feel better, but she couldn't bring herself to articulate her thoughts about the matter again.   
  
_What do you want to save me from?_ he asked her after they had made love, the hurt in his quivering voice palpable. _From me?_

Yes, he was hurt. But not more hurt than she was, for believing the things Elaine said, when he had told her how much she had meant to him, how much more. Hurt at how he always hid the scars on his wrist, as if he was ashamed of her to see. Then, they found out Elaine passed. It was inevitable they knew it, but Lydia still would have stayed with him, for she knew he mourned, though he said he was fine, and it was more important she help Bianca, Varric’s “friend.” She didn’t believe he was "fine," and it was all she could think in her quiet moments alone. She also wondered if their relationship would always entail constant reassurances, and declarations that the past would have no bearing on the now. Some superstitious part of her worried that Elaine and Asher resurfacing was some sign that there would always be ghosts in the way of the two of them. Then again, maybe it wasn’t the ghosts that were the problem—only their own insecurities.

“Varric. Will you…see her again?” Cassandra asked, Lydia's attention was returned to the party.

“Sure,” Varric replied with some trepidation, a respectful distance away from Cassandra. If anything, it was good to see that some things never changed since he had left for Kirkwall.

“How can you be sure?” Cassandra asked, puzzled. “She’s a little—"

“Well, I suspect there are a lot of things that need to be done back at Skyhold before the fete, right?” Varric replied simply and quickly, before Cassandra said anything she may regret.

The blasted fete. Lydia wished every day she had never suggested it to Josephine and the others, and when she thought about Madame Gautier, who months ago she would have been glad to see, sticking pins in her for a new dress, she sighed deeply.

“Oh come now Lydia,” Dorian huffed, peeking up from his book. “It’s an excuse to dance right?”

“I suppose,” she replied, trying her best to make the best of it, imagining a dance or two.

Dorian smirked. “You’re not even the least bit excited? I’m sure Cullen would love to dance with you again.”

She didn’t say anything.

“Ah, cheer up Fire,” Varric said, huddling near her, as did Dorian and Cassandra. “Curly will be fine.”

“I don’t know,” Lydia admitted, not able to shake how far away he looked before she left him, how deep in his thoughts he was. How deeply he was mourning. “He…”

“It’s a shame what happened to Elaine,” Cassandra said. “But she chose her path.”

“You did right, letting her last days be comfortable,” Varric added.

“I just don’t know how to make it better for us.”

Dorian, Varric, and Cassandra all huddled a little bit closer, in a joint gesture of mutual support. “Well,” Lydia surmised. “I suppose it’s good to know people are rooting for us.”

“I know things have been hard, but think of it this way, all couples have problems of some sort.” Dorian gave a conspiratorial glance at Varric. “As demonstrated today.”

Varric glared back. “Is that what you tell the Iron Bull?”

A very grumpy mage retreated to his tent after that.

 

* * *

 

 

The solace and peace he once felt, praying and kneeling before Andraste was dwindling. She couldn’t stop the hurt and regret for Elaine. She couldn’t make time alter and make sure none of what happened ever happened. She couldn’t take the pain away.

He was accustomed to the headaches and pain in his joints. The nightmares. He wasn’t used to the pain being this incessant and nagging, the nightmares so real he woke and felt as though he was still there.

You are too hard on yourself, Cassandra said when she returned with Lydia from the Hinterlands. It will pass.

What if it doesn’t?

You give yourself too little credit!

Did I ruin everything with Lydia?

He left the last questions unasked. Only to Andraste did he voice them, and she offered nothing in return. This was his to endure alone.

He wished he felt at least a little better, serviceable when Lydia came to him in the chantry as he prayed. She helped him rise, wrapped her arms around him.

“You feel hot,” she said, placing the back of her hand to his forehead. “Are you well? Maybe—”

“Fine,” he said, too shortly. “Lydia. I’m fine.”

She turned her gaze downward. “You weren’t there in the stables, like you usually are. And I would have came to you, but Madame Gautier arrived, and she wanted to try on a few things, and then Josephine needed…well, I’m here now,” she offered at last. “I missed you. So much.”

“I missed you too.”

She bit her lip, shifting uncomfortably at the silence. He wasn’t used to this with Lydia, the uncomfortable silence. “We…haven’t talked about her. Or him,” Lydia said after the long moments passed. "At all, after. Maybe we...should?"

She was right, in that they hadn't. After he found out Elaine had passed, Lydia had held him for a bit, but then he did what he always did, what he had to do: his work. The Inquisition wouldn’t rest after all. Besides, Lydia had gotten word of the red lyrium in the Hinterlands after that anyway, and she had to go with Varric to shut it down. But even in their letters, they didn’t really speak of what had happened. He didn't think they should, not anymore. 

“Did we need to Lydia?” Cullen asked. “Elaine is dead, so is Asher now. There’s no need.”

“We’ve changed.”

Perhaps he knew before, though he didn’t acknowledge how the ghosts hadn’t left him since, and Lydia harder to reach. Maybe that was why the migraine never dissipated, the hum of the lyrium, louder. Only just, but he knew.

“I promise Cullen. What Elaine said—”

“I know that,” he interjected, not wishing to discuss that anymore. “I still want you Lydia, I still care for you.”

The “but” remained unsaid, and she knew it. “Please talk to me,” she said. “Tell me what ails you. Let me be there for you. I—”

“I am here. I—”

He stopped protesting and found himself coiling his unarmored body around her, clinging to her as if she was a raft, and he was lost at sea. “You do feel a little feverish,” she said. “Have you been resting? Have—”

“I spoke to the healers. It’s fine, it will pass.”

She stiffened, in his arms, and he hoped she believed him. “I’m just trying to help you.”

Maker’s breath, he knew that. “I’m sorry.”

She sighed. “I…I have some news for you,” she said, diverting the subject. “Good news. Willa wrote to me weeks ago, but I just got the letter. She had her baby.”

“Willa…yes.” Her friend from the Circle. “That’s wonderful news.”

“A girl,” Lydia said, beaming. “I always thought her beau had the worst name, Clarence, but at least it lent itself to Clarice. Clarice Lydia.”

He smiled at least, at the chosen name.

“Have you heard from your siblings?” Lydia asked, still toying with his shirt. “No word from Branson yet?”

“Not yet,” Cullen replied. “But…wait.”

He didn’t notice it before, but there were pearls around her neck. They were dainty, and just big enough to be seen, small enough to where they added a touch of elegance. Cullen’s hand flew to it, rolling one of the beads with his finger. “Who gave you this?” he asked.  
“My father did.”  
“You’re father?”

Defensively, she crossed her arms, touching the pearls. “They were my mother’s,” she said. “And when I ran into my father today, he told me he had been meaning to give them to me.”

“And you’re, wearing them?”

He was acting like a scandalized Orlesian at court, and she knew it. “They were my mothers,” she said, and it was true, he supposed, though he didn’t like the idea that Lydia had been friendly, for lack of a better word with Trevelyan. Cullen ran into him periodically, and though the man was pleasant enough, nodding at him and not offering any unsolicited advice like many of the Orlesians liked to do, he couldn’t shake away that feeling, that there was some deeper reason why he was here, and why he didn’t leave yet.

“He’s not forgiven, Cullen,” Lydia made clear. “But life is too short, alright? I will never forgive him for what he said, but…” she sighed. “He taught me to dance. I have so many bad memories with him. At least I have a few good.”

“I suppose.”

He felt a pathetic excuse of a lover as they continued to stand in uncomfortable silence in the chantry, unsure of what else to say. Because there was nothing really to say. So when he had the thought, he ran with it.

“You want to go to the Herald’s Rest?” Lydia repeated, shocked. “You want to…dance with me? If you’re not feeling well…”

“I’m fine,” he insisted. “Really. Let’s go. Dance.”

Lydia was bewildered, but didn’t protest, or at least she didn’t have the energy to, as he led her to the Herald’s Rest. When they walked hand in hand inside, there was a cacophony of uproarious cheering from soldiers, scouts, and various healers, instigated by Rylen, no less.

“Cullen!” he exclaimed, slapping him on the back when Lydia sat the two of them down at one of the tables near the back. “Haven’t seen you in a while. Have a pint.”

One of the waitresses brought one over when Rylen motioned, handing it to Cullen. He took one swig, before thinking better of it. Lydia raised her eyebrows when he pushed the drink aside, taking it from him and finishing it herself. If his migraine wasn’t so bad, or if he felt more grounded to the earth, he would have been impressed with the feat—it took her all of four large gulps to get it down.

Rylen clapped his back. “Mate, are you alright?”

At least the room wasn’t spinning too badly. but still Cullen felt the fever. “Fine.”

“Mate, I know that look. You—”

“Really!” Cullen snapped, grabbing ahold of Lydia. She barely had time to react as he brought her up and to the center of the room, where other couples were swaying. A few of them stopped and backed out of the way for the Commander and Inquisitor as he pushed her body close to his, supporting her waist with one hand, and grabbing her other hand. As her other hand rested on his shoulder, he prayed she could not feel the way it was shaking.

“You want to lead?” Lydia asked through Maryden's, lute. She was singing a song about Sera, but Cullen didn’t have time to wonder if it was about their Sera when Lydia began to move him, hands haphazardly moving to his hips.

“You did well in my quarters,” she said, trying to get his body to sway. “And, if you can command an army, you can do this. It’s just like leading your troops.”

“How?”

“Well, I didn’t think of the comparison that thoroughly. Just go with it.”

Before he knew it, she was lightly pushing him. Whatever they were doing, it couldn’t have been called dancing. He didn’t even think their “waltz” at the Winter Palace could have been dancing, but even that was better than the awkward back and forth motions they were attempting.

“Pick up your feet,” Lydia said.

He did what he was told, and they were moving, backward and forwards and without any fluidity, like a ship on the harbor slowly docking. He didn’t look at Lydia as he danced, instead he alternated between looking at his feet and his sides, careful so he wouldn’t knock into anyone, or make himself more ill.

“If you don’t want to do this, we can stop,” Lydia suggested, through the throb, and the shake, being utterly gentle when he deserved none of it.

“No. I—"

“You’re shaking.”

He didn’t say anything, only closed his eyes, and held onto her as the music stopped. All around there was clapping, and when Cullen opened his eyes and realized where they were, right in the middle of the whole bloody tavern, with the whole lot of his men, healers, and relaxing scouts around, there was a feeling of being very, very hot.

“Oh my,” Lydia murmured. “Uh….”

They were the worst kept secret in the Inquisition, and of course people knew. This though, this staring and this clapping at them, cheering, that was another matter entirely. He might as well have been filled with lead. He couldn’t move. He was rooted.

“For our brave Inquisitor and dashing Commander,” Maryden announced, quite suddenly, hushing the crowd. “I have composed a new ballad.”

Adamant suddenly seemed a better place than the tavern as Maryden began, sitting on her stool and giving her lute a precursory strum. The ballad began, the tavern collectively stilled, and even more so, did Cullen become aware of the throb, the ache, and the hum.

_My mistress has eyes that are water,_

_Drowning, and drowning._

_You call to me, dearest one_

_Through dreams and misty murmurs._

_Different so we are,_

_Still I want._

“Dreams and misty murmurs?” Cullen muttered under his breath. “What is this anyway?”

Lydia nudged his ankle with her foot, quieting him as Maryden strummed, continuing.

_I call to you, through my dreams_

_And see you there, through the misty winds,_

_Come to me, through the winding path,_

_And hold me gentle dear,_

_Not so far, not so different,_

_How I love._

The tune ended with a soft melodic chord, and as the tavern burst into applause, Cullen looked around at resting scouts, soldiers, and inner Circle members, and found that there were only two people that weren’t clapping: the couple that the song took inspiration from. That changed however when he felt Lydia next to him begin to tentatively clap, before gradually ending in a louder crescendo.

“Well,” she said, amused and smiling as the tavern quieted, wanting to hear what their opinion on the matter was. “That was…flattering. Lovely Maryden. Thank you.”

Maryden bowed. “Thank the both you, for the inspiration you give us all as you walk the battlements.”

Cullen flared. “That…what gives you the right to stare at us when—"

“Really!” Lydia interjected, kicking his ankle again. “Thank you all!”

Rylen was walking towards him, there to clap him on the back again. Cullen wished he wouldn’t have done that—he had felt the floor not as solid as it should have been from the dancing, and anything else that would make the earth move would only aggravate that further. He at least gave Rylen a few brief replies, (Though he was such a terrible liar and Lydia eyed him for it.) but then Dorian was walking over to Lydia, acknowledging Cullen in the process and saying what a nice song it was.

“Invasive is more like." He had bit back too many comments, he couldn't help just the one.

“The song could have been about anyone,” Dorian dismissed.

“That’s not the point. People shouldn’t stare at—”

Rylen huffed. “You can’t go about your business where everyone can see and then complain when people notice!”

For a moment that felt longer than it was, Lydia and Dorian began prattling as Rylen barked in his ear. The song changed too, nothing he recognized but the faster tempo made the cacophony in the tavern increase tenfold. What were Lydia and Dorian talking about? Bull? He didn’t know why they would be, couldn’t follow. Rylen was saying something else as well, continuing on about decorum and how Cullen shouldn’t have been so blatant in his corridor creeping if he didn’t want anyone to know. It was all noise. More noise, more spinning. The more unsteady the earth became, the louder the pounding in his ears.

“Really Dorian, you need to stop avoiding him. Go talk to him!”

“But Lydia—”

“No buts Dorian!”

“Cullen mate, you don’t look so well.”

“He’s right, you don’t look well. Cullen—”

“ _Fuck_."

Both Lydia, Rylen, even Dorian recoiled at the sudden profanity. He clenched his fist in some vain effort to steady himself. It didn’t work. And he was so alone, isolated along the sea, and there was nothing to anchor him, nothing to bring him back, not even Lydia. Not her touch, or her voice. Eyes only a blue sea, with no anchor.

He stumbled out of the tavern into the cool night air. He was so stifled inside, and he didn’t even realize how greatly earlier. No one had followed him out. Good, he didn’t want anyone to see him stumble against the balustrade, cling to it so tightly his knuckles turned white. He was gasping for air. Drowning. Would he always be drowning? Always unable to come up?

“You weren’t well, why did you take me here Cullen? Why weren’t you honest with me?”

He shrugged her off. Had she called his name as he left, and he didn’t know it? “Lydia, don’t,” he said, trying to brush her off. “I’m fine.”

“You’re clearly not!” she exclaimed, trying to get him to face her. “Please talk to me. Cullen, I care. And I want to see you better.”

“Save me?”

“No,” she stated, no emotion, no anything. “I don’t want to save you, I know you can save yourself. I just want to be here with you.”

Maker. She was right. She was right.

Why was he holding himself away? Hiding from her, when he promised her, he would try? That’s what trying was. It wasn’t hiding away when there were struggles.

He rose from the balustrade to face her. He looked at her and didn’t hide his shame. What a coward he was. A coward, and—

“I care for you so much Cullen.” She held onto him, and though he saw the sea, he clung to the anchor. “I know you’re hurt. I’m hurt too, from everything. But I’m also here. I want—”

“Elaine,” he said feebly feeling the relief of a burden he didn’t even know at first he was holding. “It’s her. She didn’t deserve it, but—”

“I know.” Lydia clung to him. “But we must…move on. Not dwell. Live.”

“It’s not all,” he said. It wasn’t going away. Not the ache, nor the hum. He had some idea that it would since he admitted his ailing. It didn’t. Not at all. “It’s more than that,” he said. “The nightmares, they’re worse than they have been in a while…”

“You’ve been shaking.”

Of course she would have known. All he could do was nod. “It’s the lyrium, the withdrawal. I don’t know why it’s worse, but it is, and I have to endure it. And I’m so sorry I ever said those things Lydia. And—”

He cradled her face, pressed his forehead to hers in some vain attempt to dissolve into her, and her flowery earthy scent. Feel her warmth and melt into it. “Breathe,” she whispered, their breaths synchronizing. “Stand with me, and breathe.”

He did. One breath in, and an exhale. “Why won’t it stop?” he pleaded, when the earth was at last still. “Lydia. Why can’t I move on?”

“Sh, love. I’m here.”

She was. Maker, she was. And though the pain didn’t go away then, he still felt that ache within, and heard the call of the lyrium as his throat burned, Lydia was there. They would work through it. And, he dully realized, as he buried his face in the crook of her neck, she had called him love. His heart, though it had had been beating before then, and had kept him breathing, didn’t keep him alive.

For that moment, he was alive again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This thing might end at fifty chapters, but I don't know anymore. Thank you all for reading and being patient with me :)


	37. Roles

Everything happened at once in the short days after Cullen made his confession. The fete loomed, and in between dress fittings with Madame Gautier, etiquette lessons with Josephine, and dance lessons with Lydia’s favorite dance instructor Yves, there was Lydia’s worry for Cullen.

He claimed he was better, and his moment in the courtyard was only a moment of weakness, but Lydia kept an eye on him still. “You have other things to think about,” he chided as she evolved into a mother hen, fretting over him and making sure he was taking his tonics. “Go practice your speech you have to make.”

“I already have with Varric,” she retorted, standing with her hands on her hips in his office the day before the ball, though in truth he had only given her pointers about it, and she had to work out the rest herself. “Really.”

“Lydia.”

“I am working on it!”

She practiced when she could, though thinking about what she wanted to say made her bite her nails. But Varric had said that usually the most radical things were the most cherished and remembered, so she kept that in mind.

There were other things she took care of as well, mostly with Josephine, and all for Cullen’s sake. Tonics, potions, books on lyrium and its symptoms to be delivered to the healers, and other things. Poor Josie was already ready to rip her hair out when Lydia asked her if she could put in the order for the new bed. Yet it was so Cullen could get the best night’s rest he could, and with Josie’s tact persuasive skills and deep pockets, the bed arrived just in time. The night before the ball, in fact.

Lydia went with a muted blue bedsheet to match, the same color as the large fluffy pillows that Josephine also ordered. She had kept it a secret from Cullen, hoping he would enjoy the surprise and be glad, but she had to admit she was rather found of the new bed herself. It was so soft, that when she tumbled on it after the old one was removed, she felt she might as well have been sleeping on a mat in the Hinterlands somewhere with the old one. That was saying something, because she often compared her old bed to clouds.

When Cullen tumbled in for the evening, however, he did not have the reaction Lydia expected.

“Lydia,” he stated, staring at the new bed with a mixture of incredulity and shock. “Why did you do this?”

“Isn’t it obvious? You haven’t been sleeping well. I thought this could help.”

“Our soldiers sleep in barracks Lydia. This is too extravagant. We could have spent the money on something else. Samson is still out there. The red lyrium still needs to be dealt with, and—”

“Cullen. I wanted to help you.”

It was obvious that she made him feel terrible for the admonishments, so when he fell into her arms and begged for forgiveness, she told them that there was nothing to forgive. He told her that he had appreciated everything she had done for him since she had arrived back home, and upon testing out the bed, he did admit it was quite soft.

“Did you think about using this for…other things as well?” Cullen asked, his hand on her leg.

“Well. Perhaps.”

He chuckled as he tentatively kissed her, his face scratchy from not shaving. “Cullen,” she murmured. “Perhaps you should move your things in here. If…”

“I will,” he promised, as he continued to kiss her. “You don’t mind the beard, right?”

“No,” she assured. “It feels…well, I rather like it.”

She wondered if she liked it so much because it was different from Asher. He never had a beard, didn’t like the feel of it on his face. Yet Cullen continued to kiss her, and she realized that it didn’t matter. She loved his kisses no matter what. They tasted like adoration, and they tasted like they did before Asher or Elaine resurfaced.

Cullen nestled his face in the crook of her neck. “Lydia,” he murmured, voice engrained in lust, “do you want…?”

It was the first time they had broached the subject of intimacy in a while, and the last time they had done anything more than brief and fleeting kisses since before Elaine had passed. Since then Lydia hadn’t broached it, even though Cullen claimed every night he was feeling better. She still found it better to wait, though she wondered if now would be the right time.

When she wasn’t quick to respond, Cullen kissed her forehead. “Let’s just sleep,” he suggested. “It’s a bit of a day tomorrow.”

She was thankful he made the suggestion. Her stomach started to turn at the thought of the ball. So she curled next to him underneath their new covers, and as she had every night, asked if he was doing better.

“Not since yesterday,” he replied, though he did remind her that yesterday had been a relatively good day. The headache, when it came, happened well into the day, and it was dull. The nightmares too weren’t as bad he said. Or if they were, he was hiding it well, as Lydia could often catch on if he was lying. She hadn’t had that feeling yet.

“I’m glad,” she said, yawning. “Was everything else well otherwise?”

“Bull came to my office earlier, demanding I do something about all the arriving nobles that watch him train, but after I told him that he should speak to Josephine about it, he claimed that maybe the attention would be nice, and there was more than a few redheads in the crowd.”

She chuckled. “Well. He does have a thing for redheads.”

“They are pretty, though I think I prefer brunettes.”

“I used to as well.”

She peered at him, and he raised his eyebrows. She only smiled, deviously, before pecking him on the cheek, and telling him she was joking.

“No, I do love your hair,” she admitted, weaving her fingers through it. “Especially when it’s natural. If we have children, I would want their hair to be like yours.”

It came out so suddenly, so naturally, she didn’t even register she had said what she said, until she saw the realization in Cullen’s eyes. The shock.

“Oh,” she said, feeling something fall. “Maybe I—”

“No, no,” he stammered, eyes softening. “I…” He pursed his lips. “I didn’t think about children, really. It seems…so far away.”

_And I may not survive Corypheus._

She bit that away. “It is far away, she said. “Forget I said anything about it.” She ran her fingers through his hair again. “I’m just glad you’re feeling better. You, are feeling better, aren’t you?”

“I am.”

She frowned. “Your voice wavered.”

“It comes and goes.”

“You said though, you weren’t as stressed anymore.”

“The ball, perhaps has put me on edge.”

Sabine determined earlier that week, that the symptoms of the withdrawal heightened when Cullen was under excessive stress. There was some residual lyrium left within him, and the unusual stress that was going through had taken a toll on his body in the months since the Inquisition. With Elaine, it all came to a toppling point, and Sabine recommended rest, (though Cullen hadn’t exactly followed through with that,) and a tonic.

“I’m fine, really,” Cullen clarified, running a hand down her back. “Aren’t you stressed? The fete is coming up, and I haven’t heard you practice your speech yet.”

“Maybe we should go to sleep. It’s a secret, anyway.”

He chuckled. “Alright. But Lydia?”

“Hm?”

“Our children. I want them to have your eyes.”

How could she sleep, after that?

 

* * *

 

 

The fade was so often a cruel place, showing him everything he never wanted to remember. Yet there was something extraordinary that happened when Cullen awoke from his dream that night, because when he woke up, and realized that what had transpired had been nothing more than a dream, he found he wanted nothing more than to fall back into it.

Lydia was there, and it was warm, and right. No doubts, no insecurities, no pain of the withdrawal as there was when he was awake. More extraordinary still, was that when he knew, and realized, there was no thought that perhaps his hands were too sullied to hold a thing so beautiful. And even if he could not fully see her in dreams, he knew she was beautiful.

He woke then, flooded not with relief as he usually did when he rose from the fade, but disappointment. He reached for Lydia. She wasn’t there.

She did however, leave a note by her pillow. _Will be back soon._

It must have been early dawn. A little earlier than he usually got up and ready for the day, but wanting to find Lydia, he stuffed on his boots and headed out of her quarters, not sure where she would be. He didn’t have to look far, he came to find out. She was the first thing he saw as he slipped into the throne room, right by the fire. With Trevelyan.

The two were both wearing night robes, sipping from teacups over a basket of bread and other assorted pastries. Trevelyan was talking about something or other, Cullen couldn’t really hear—and Lydia was smiling. Moreover, the smile, he could tell, wasn’t forced. It was her real smile, the one she usually gave him. He didn’t like it, and he felt like a child again, slightly annoyed at his mother for doting on Bran, Mia or Rose when he wanted the attention.

“Cullen!”

She motioned for him over. Reluctantly Cullen took a seat across from Lydia and her father, nodding at the man. “Where did you go?” Cullen asked her. “You weren’t—"

“Oh, I had a dream and I was hoping…” She covered her cheeks, trying to obscure her blush. He understood his mistake a moment later. She didn’t want her father to know that the two of them were sharing the same bed, something he wasn’t too keen on Trevelyan knowing either. Then again, if Maryden’s song was any indication, it wasn’t a secret at all.

“Doesn’t matter,” Trevelyan said, though he grit his teeth, if only just. “Would you like a biscuit?”

Cullen took one from the basket, more so pulling it apart with his fingers than eating it as Trevelyan jumped right back into the story he was telling prior to Cullen’s arrival, the story about how Lydia’s mother, Theodosia, met him for the first time.

“Ferelden is such a quaint place,” Trevelyan said, and Cullen had to stop himself from reminding the man that he happened to be in the company of one. “Full of dogs. Cold. Different from Ostwick, but your mother always loved it. As she loved Ostwick.”

“I do miss the beach,” Lydia murmured. “The estate, and the stables. The mountains here though, they have their own beauty.”

“A fine place for a gala,” Trevelyan said, surveying the throne room, before glancing at Lydia. “Do you think you’re ready for the night?”

“I think so.”

“I remember a little girl who ran down the stairs in her mother’s pearls and dress during one of our galas in Ostwick, dancing and showing everyone how skilled she was.”

Lydia covered cheeks, blushing once more. “Yes, I remember.”

“You would be welcome, to come back,” Trevelyan said. “I would love to have you.”

“Maybe when this is all over,” she said, wistful, and regarding Cullen. “Would you like to see the beach? Or my home from before?”

“Yes,” he replied. “But honestly, I had hoped to never travel by sea again.” He still remembered how he almost fell on one of the crewmen on the way to Kirkwall, half asleep and bleary as he was. It was better than going below deck, however, cramped as it was. He had tried—he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything.

“Yes, dreadfully inconvenient,” Trevelyan muttered, sipping some tea, changing the subject. “Lydia, I am glad to see you wearing your mother’s necklace. You look like her mirror image, you know.”

“Thank you, I…I suppose I’ve tried to emulate her, through my life,” Lydia said, her hand instinctively flying to the pearls around her neck.

“You’re beautiful as you are Lydia.”

She didn’t know what to say to that. She was very, humbled, looking at the hands on her lap. Cullen meanwhile, wasn’t as charmed.

Trevelyan then announced that he really should retire, before one of his acquaintances that had arrived from the Marches for the ball see him in his robe. He parted with a smile and offered his well wishes, and told Lydia he hoped to see her before the fete.

“Things will be busy, but I hope so as well. Goodbye father.”

“Goodbye Lydia. Commander.”

Cullen dropped all pretense when the man was gone. “Lydia,” he stated, making sure his voice was sufficiently low, in case Trevelyan managed to somehow hear. "What was that?”

“I can be friendly, can’t I?” she asked, offhandedly sipping her tea.

“How did you even get here anyway?”

“I had a dream, and wanted to talk to Solas about it. Long story, I was interested in his fade studies, he took me…well, I was dreaming, but…ah. Never mind.”

He didn’t think he could make sense of that as she set down her cup of tea. “And it turns out my father has a bit of a pastry habit,” she continued. “So when I ran into him here, I had some with him. I know you don’t like it, or him, but…” She sighed. “I want things to be not as they were, alright? At least he gave me a compliment.”

“I call you beautiful all the time,” he said, feeling every bit the petulant child as he said it.

“When you don’t know what else to say, you always do,” she said, before smiling. “Not that I don’t appreciate it.”

“It is true, but I mean it,” he said. “Not that your father doesn’t…it just…” he shook his head, thoughts not sorting out the way he wanted to. “It doesn’t matter.”

“You don’t trust him, I get it. It doesn’t matter. How are you this morning, besides that?”

There was a reprieve, only a slight discomfort, a slight shake. Manageable. He would have to go see Sabine about it, if he was this way during the fete—

It was hours away. He would be fine. He had to be.

“Cullen?”

“I’m fine.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I’m only worried,” he said. “About the party.”

“As I am,” she said, putting her hand on his. “Was that why you woke up? You weren’t feeling well?”

“I had a dream, actually.”

He didn’t continue, and she squeezed his hand, willing him to continue. He thought of telling her.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said, feeling ridiculous as he remembered the dream. “I’ll be fine Lydia. I promise.”

She kissed his hand. “You matter to me, you know.”

He wished she would call him love again, as he got up and headed back to his office and quarters. Like a spell or an incantation, he thought that perhaps it could turn away his ailing, could make his hands stop shaking so he could shave, as silly as it was.

It was a blessing his hands had worked when he was with her, but when he tried to shave earlier in the week, he couldn’t even begin. He would have to just do it, as it would put on the front that he was feeling better than he let on. He didn’t want Lydia to worry, not with the fete, on this night. He wanted Lydia to look at him during the night, and know everything would be all right.

Trevelyan, Elaine, then Asher. They bounced back from all of it. They could make it through that. So he could make it through the lyrium.

 

* * *

 

Being the center of attention wasn’t something Lydia sought out in her life before the Inquisition. Mages were locked away in Circles with the goal to be unseen, and that rhetoric was taught by the lay sisters that lived with the apprentices and Circle mages. Beyond that, any inner strength or courage Lydia had was drowned out by insecurities. Becoming the Herald and Inquisitor meant Lydia had to adjust to her role, had to adjust to being the center of attention. She didn’t think that would ever mean becoming involved in her own parade. Yet that’s what getting ready for the fete that day ended up being.

It was an endless revolve of Josephine, Vivienne, Leliana, and various Orlesian “stylists” that all wanted a hand in making Lydia up for the evening ahead. In her imaginings of this moment, Lydia expected to be left alone, but when she suggested early on to be left to her own devices, Josephine looked as though Lydia had suggested to walk in the throne room in front of the whole Inquisition completely naked. At the very least she bathed and washed her hair privately before Josephine ushered in a certain Claude Deneuve to her chambers. Josephine introduced the bespectacled, dark haired man as Val Royeux’s premium hair stylist, and he almost saw everything Lydia had to offer, as she could barely put on her robe in time before he welcomed himself in.

Josephine watched as he combed through her hair, prattling about how luxurious it was before he trimmed the dead ends, and stuck curlers through it to give it more volume. He then surveyed her eyebrows, and upon deeming they were “out of control,” decided to trim them. That then became a horrifying process in which tiny metal prongs yanked away all the stray hairs, making Lydia exclaim and groan every other second.

“All this for eyebrows?” Lydia asked when her eyebrows were at least deemed “perfectly symmetrical,” taking a cool rag to her temples.

“Eyebrows tie everything together, _cherie_ ,” Claude Deneuve said, scandalized Lydia even had to ask.

The whole thing took an agonizingly long time, and he wasn’t even done by the time Vivienne exchanged for Josephine as Lydia’s official overseer. Apparently Josephine and Vivienne had coordinated this all out previously. Vivienne would get ready for the fete in the morning while Josephine would get ready in the afternoon, so there would at least be one person to give a second opinion on Lydia’s appearance. Evidently this was in case one of the stylists did something completely outrageous, like forget to pluck her eyebrows.

As Claude Deneuve undid the curlers in Lydia’s hair, Vivienne watched with a careful eye. She only needed to put on her dress, but Lydia thought Vivienne could walk out in her normal attire and still turn heads. She glowed, her cheeks bright with rouge and her lips painted fuchsia as she watched Claude finish with the last curler. They had turned Lydia’s loose waves into tight coils, and Lydia looked at herself through the vanity mirror horror. She would walk out into the throne room, make her speech, and everyone would be reminded of a poodle. Either Claude Deneuve thought this sort of thing was the height of fashion, or he adored poodles, because he patted himself on the back for his handiwork.

Vivienne, thank the Maker, was dissatisfied. “Claude,” she scolded. “Use a brush.”

Claude Deneuve may has well have been struck in the face. _“Oui,_ Madame de Fer, _oui!_ ”

Lydia’s hair was brushed, and a decorative braid placed on top. “Lovely darling,” Vivienne said, before praising Claude’s handiwork as much better. “Every lady in Val Royeux will want hair like this.”

“Bless you, Madame de Fer!” he said. “You are a treasure.”

“As are you Claude.”

Before another character could waltz in to do Lydia’s makeup, she was beginning to feel queasy. She had practiced her speech when she could, mostly after Cullen had fallen asleep. (He offered to be her audience, but she didn’t think it was ready yet, even though he pointed out that she kept saying that every night.) It got to the point where Varric confided that a piece of writing was never really ready or done, and sometimes one had to throw their hands in the air and accept that it was as good as it was going to get. Lydia kept that in mind as her face was powdered, but she was beginning to think she would begin her speech and everyone would laugh at her. Her father most of all. He would probably look at her and just think Lydia was a poor substitute for her mother.

Maker. Her mother. She would never have been nervous for this sort of thing. She was born to be the center of attention, the subject of a parade.

“What’s the matter darling?” Vivienne asked. “You seem nervous.”

“I was thinking of my mother,” Lydia confided. “She would never have been nervous before something like this. Of course, she never had to make a speech either.”

“When you speak Lydia, speak only to Cullen. Then you’ll succeed.”

Lydia kept that in mind as Josephine and Vivienne swapped places once more, only this time, Josephine was newly freshened and wearing a red silken set of her usual Skyhold attire. She looked marvelous as she chanted a list of reminders Lydia had to keep in mind as yet another Orlesian beauty artisan was ushered in to finish Lydia’s cosmetics. If someone asked about Lydia’s rift magic, Josephine reiterated, she would have to assure them that it’s a new area of study now practiced in some Circles, even though that was a bit of an exaggeration. And if anyone asked her to dance, she would have to indulge them, and there was to be no running off at any point.

“And if anyone asks if you’re seeing someone…”

“I won’t lie,” Lydia stated flatly.

“At least act charmed at their flirtations. Especially if they’re Orlesian,” Josephine said. “Of course, if they’re Orlesian, that will annoy Cullen the most, won’t it?”

“Hmm,” Lydia agreed, as the last of the rouge was applied to her face.

Once her face was done, the dressmaker Madame Gautier entered, accompanied by Vivienne. Lydia barely had time to compliment Vivienne’s gorgeous white silken and silver threaded dress as Madame Gautier brought Lydia behind the dividers to throw on her dress. In Halamshiral, Madame Gautier had said she would want to design Lydia a dress, and she certainly spared no expense at the opportunity she was given for the fete. The dress was beautiful, and the blue fabric chosen was divine against her skin, and it made her once more remember the anecdote her father told her earlier, about the time she put on her mother’s dress and walked downstairs to one of their parties.

“Don’t look at yourself just yet,” Josephine advised. “Wait until you are done.”

Lydia put on her perfume, the jasmine smell making her feel complete, right along with her mother’s pearls. “There is one more thing as well, my dear,” Vivienne said, handing Lydia a box. Inside it was the most stunning pair of shoes Lydia had ever seen. Pointed toe, the same royal blue color as her dress, with beaded pearls at the tip, and a small heel that would not impede any dancing.

“From all three of us,” Vivienne said.

“Three of you?”

“Leliana,” Josephine said. “But don’t tell her you know. We were sworn to secrecy.”

Lydia smiled. “My lips are sealed.”

She headed over to the mirror, slightly picking up her skirt. “I never in my life expected something like this would happen,” Lydia regaled. “What if no one likes what I have to say?”

“You will make them listen,” Vivienne promised. “I know.”

“I’m not worried at all,” Josephine promised.

“I don’t think you’re telling the truth.”

“Why don’t you have a look in the mirror?”

Josephine was diverting, but Lydia didn’t have time to think about that as she made her way over to the full-length mirror. She had kept her eyes closed the way there, admitting to herself that she was worried she wouldn’t like what she saw. So often in the past she didn’t.

“Open your eyes,” Vivienne said. “I promise you, you will like what you see.”

There was shock, and wonder at what she saw. But she did like what she saw. And maybe, that was because she saw her mother.

There were some differences, yes, like the almond shape of the eye, versus the rounder shape her mother had. The olive skin tone where her mother was pale. But she could have been her mother, in another time. Maybe that’s why her father had softened up to her. She looked more like her mother now than she ever had in her life. And somehow, she didn’t feel nervous anymore.

Well, she was, but when she thought of her speech, she imagined herself taking on a role as an actor would. She would wear her mother’s costume as she took the role of the Inquisitor and Herald. Not Lydia, or everything that made her Lydia. A symbol.

“Wait till he sees you,” Vivienne murmured.

She wasn’t sure if Cullen would like her. It was Lydia he cared for, not this mask or costume. But she thought of him peeling the dress away later that night, undoing the costume and role until she was Lydia again, and she knew she could get through the night.

“It will begin soon,” Josephine said. “Are you ready?”

She nodded. Underneath her guise, and underneath her role, despite everything that happened, she stood, more ready than she had been for anything else since she had stepped out off the fade.


	38. Belong

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> awesome art was done by @kawereen at tumblr!

There was a poem his mother had read to him long ago. And though he had not read the poem in full for years and time had made his memory hazy, the overarching phrase floated through his mind as he saw Lydia, gliding down and descending from her quarters and appearing to the whole Inquisition and selection of nobles from Ferelden, Orlais and the Marches.

She walks in beauty.

It was a contrasting beauty to what he was accustomed to. Around Skyhold hunched over her garden, she possessed a beauty that came from the earth. Yet for this occasion Josephine and Vivienne had turned her from a bouquet of uprooted jasmine and roses into a single red rose, bereft of any thorns. She was done in blue silks, her hair shiny, and her mother’s pearls at her neck. The dress had sleeves that elegantly hung around her shoulders in such a way that obscured the scar she had, and as she moved, the dress shimmered like the sea. It drew attention away from the half glove that she wore on her hand, the glove that kept people from gawking at her mark.

“Cullen. My brave and gallant knight.”

He beamed as she floated to him. What an image they created when they stood together, he in his full armor and Lydia in her finery. He recalled his younger days, days he wanted to be a knight of old. In the books he read there were illustrations of knights in silver armor, kneeling before a lady dressed in silks in an effort to gain her favor. In some strange, way he realized as he took Lydia’s hand, he became one of those knights.

“I know I say it too much,” he muttered lowly, lest someone hear, “but you look beautiful.”

She grinned. “I know you mean it all the same. Thank you.”

When Cullen kissed her hand, he engraved his promises, promises of every little thing he intended to do to her, when they were alone behind closed doors.

There was a gentle tapping. Josephine, tapping silverware against a wine glass. The nobles stilled and stopped their murmurings, yet Cullen kept her hand in his.

“I believe in you,” he said.

“Then that’s all I need.”

He made his way into the crowd, happening to stand next to Dorian who was dressed in blue silks. He raised his eyebrows at Cullen’s fashion choices. “You’re wearing that?” he asked, in faux shock.

“What’s wrong with that?” Cullen asked. “Better than that doublet from the Winter Palace.”

Dorian at least agreed with that. He whispered something else, but something shifted in the earth, and Cullen temporarily lost his footing.

“Are you alright?” Dorian asked, steadying him. “Are you…?”

His head. Pounding. Dizzy. “Fine,” he managed.

Dorian frowned. “You don’t look well.”

He straightened himself. “Really. I’m fine,” he assured, though he still felt the metal prong underneath his skull. But Josephine cleared her throat, and he tried to forget about the pain, drawing his gaze toward Lydia as Josephine announced Lydia before the crowd. So many things ran through his mind as the room stilled in wait. Lydia wore a coy, smiling expression, letting the room know that she knew a secret that might be yet shared. Breathtaking, yet not his Lydia. Firmly the Inquisitor.

She cleared her throat before she began to speak, and it further pulled his Lydia away and brought in the Inquisitor. He watched the transformation, watched as Lydia disappeared. He thought it ridiculous, and perhaps even unfair that she had to hide herself away, but another part of him thought that perhaps it was better this way. Her inner circle, her friends, her lover were the only people who could be privy to who she really was. The nobles around him, concerned more with parties than with the people who were dying so they could continue to live ignorance, didn’t deserve to know Lydia.

The Inquisitor’s soft contralto filled the room. “Lords, and ladies, words cannot express how grateful I am for your presence.” She grinned, and there was not a person in that room who didn’t believe she was grinning directly at them. “And to think,” she continued, “the Inquisition started with only Lady Leliana and Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast. An idea to bring order back into war torn Thedas.”

Cullen absently regarded Cassandra in the crowd earlier, and his gaze shifted to her when Lydia mentioned her name. She appeared uncomfortable at the mention, though Leliana, who happened to be near her, didn’t even flinch.

“That idea shifted focus when the conclave was destroyed, and Divine Justinia murdered, and I the only survivor,” Lydia went on. “The woman that walked out of the fade. I’m sure, ladies and gentlemen, that you have heard many stories about what happened at the conclave. No one thought me innocent initially. I was, after all, a mage at the center of an explosion, with a mysterious mark on my hand. I was condemned and blamed for the divine’s death, and I can’t say I blame anyone for thinking that. But once I helped with the breach, it became clear to those around me, that I was innocent. I was even given my first title: herald of Andraste.

“I walked around Haven, the place where the Inquisition was born. I didn’t feel like the Herald, or that I could ever be. I was still a mage, and I wasn’t deaf to those that blamed and doubted around me. But some believed. That was all I needed.”

She paused, taking a deep breath. “We closed the breach. A second victory, but that was also the same night we suffered our first great loss. When the Red Templars attacked Haven, I almost didn’t make it out. But for the second time, against all odds, I survived.”

She looked directly at him, and the two shared one of those looks that only lovers could share. He grinned.

“I was given my second title after that, the title of Inquisitor.” She paused for a moment, the room utterly mesmerized. “I will not stand here and say that this mantle had always been easy. I will not stand here and pretend to you that I have always felt comfortable with what I have had to decide. I will not pretend that I have taken everything that had been thrown at me with courage. At the end of the day, sometimes I don’t feel like I am worthy enough for this.”

There was a rumble of poorly shielded murmurs from the crowd. He wanted to go up there, shout to her that she was wrong. She was right for this. She was.

“Do you want to know the truth?” Lydia asked, invoking the crowd. “I don’t need the approval of Ferelden, or Orlais, or anyone. I only need mine. And the fact that I know, at least one person believes in me…that’s all I need.”

He felt the fluttering of his heart.

“I dedicate this night to Rhine Hawke,” Lydia said, “a woman I have greatly admired. She was the one that inspired me, that let me know that as a mage, I am worthy. I dedicate this night to Miranda, the queen of Ferelden. May she return home soon. I dedicate this night to all we have lost.”

She paused, allowing a moment of silence. “To those we have lost, to those of us here. To the end of this war. To making tomorrow better than what it was. Better than what it has ever been. No more injustices, no more hating each other simply because we are different. To understanding. To the night that comes ahead. May you all join the dance, and celebrate. Thank you.”

The applause was hesitant at first, but it gradually got louder and more boisterous, thundering through the hall as Lydia descended, going to Josephine, who placed a hand on her shoulder, leading her through the crowd, shaking her hands with every noble she came across. Her father came to her too through the crowd. Took her hand and kissed it. Cullen couldn’t hear, though by his smile and the way he beamed, Cullen knew he approved. Of course he would approve, now of all times. Would he have if Lydia hadn’t been here? Cullen still didn’t think so.

Dorian nudged Cullen, raising his eyebrows as he watched Lydia effortlessly move from person to person, lavishing her attention on them.

“Well,” Dorian huffed, pleased and amused. “That will certainly give them something to talk about.”

“Indeed,” Cullen said, though he knew, she could have said the wrong things on this night, things that would have pleased the nobles but would have been wrong, or she could have said what was right. Her answer was to remain firmly in the middle. Not mincing words. Being that steal hand, yet under the guise of a velvet glove.

It was perfect.

Yet Cullen bit his lip. The night had just begun, and he felt worse than he felt after Adamant.

 

* * *

 

 

Being up there was like she was whirling and whirling, and while the banquet feast was being brought out Lydia thought she would have some reprieve, but Josephine ended up shuffling Lydia through the crowd, shaking hands with every noble that came her way. It was all the same questions that they asked, the same comments. _I knew so and so at the Ostwick circle, did you cross paths? Knight Commander Jovan is wonderful, isn’t he? Such a pleasure seeing your father here. He must be so proud. Splendid job at the Winter Palace. Utterly marvelous._

She took cues on how to act from Varric, as he had attracted a following of readers interested in _Hard in Hightown_ and _The Tale of the Champion._ Lydia worried they would pry too deeply about Hawke, ask for specifics about what happened, and it would be too much. But Varric was remarkably patient. He told his following he missed her, as everyone who loved her did, but maybe she had seen too much in too little time.

When she ran into him, he looked at her and gave her his thanks.

If this night was her moment on the stage, then finding Cullen in the crowd was the one moment she could drop the mask and the role. He kissed her hand, lips lingering on the skin, and she longed to pull him away, back him against the wall and kiss him fiercely.

“Wonderful, he muttered. “Perfect.”

She couldn’t help but caress his face. He felt warm and feverish. “Cullen, are you…?”

“I’m alright,” he interjected. “Don’t worry about me.”

“I hate it when you tell me that.”

“Really. Not on this night. Please Lydia. I’m just a little stifled, that’s all.”

“Maybe you should get some air for a bit.”

He nodded. “Air…yes.”

“Hurry back. I need you here.”

“Of course. I promise.”

Dorian told her he was trying to hide his ailing as he came near her, the two of them regarding Cullen as he slipped away, barely managing to avoid a group of masked, giggling Orlesians who wanted his time.

“I’m worried,” Lydia told him. “If I had realized what would all happen…if I had remembered what he went through before during Halamshiral…”

“I know,” Dorian said. “But it will all be over soon.”

The dinner bell rang soon after, and though Lydia had no appetite when she was getting ready, now that her speech was over she was ravenous. The guests could choose from an assortment of meats, chicken, beef, and lamb, but in Orlais apparently it was common for women to forgo meat, so Josephine made sure that an assortment of fresh vegetables were prepared. Fresh carrots, green beans, and spinach was set upon the long tables in the Inquisition’s hall to choose from. At Lydia’s insistence, there was also an array of cheeses and freshly baked bread. For desert, Emmaline specially made her pastries, which people were already indulging in and enjoying. Lydia was so hungry she frankly wanted it all, and as she searched for Cullen, knowing he would enjoy eating one, or five pastries, she saw he still hadn’t returned.

Only a few minutes had passed, she rationalized as she took her seat. She sat at the head of the table, while various members of her inner circle, minus Cole, who she thought was probably lurking around, took various spots so they weren’t crowded around the Inquisitor. Lydia was directly in front of Josephine, who was talking amicably with the Marquis de Vernon and Lady Wilhelmina, two Orlesian nobles who Lydia was talked to earlier, two individuals, Josephine stressed, that needed to be buttered up. They had deep pockets, deep ties to the chantry. They seemed pleased as it was—thiugh Josephine could charm any noble any way she wanted, and Josephine said Lydia made a good impression with them. Lydia though started not to worry about any nobles that night. In fact, she was beginning to worry about her inner circle, and began checking on them as she cut into her lamb.

Cassandra made it clear in early conversations she wasn’t too pleased about this business with the fete, but she looked like she was handling herself well. She was talking to Lord Markway of Ferelden, someone whom Lydia knew had an interest in dragon hunting. Cassandra was no doubt regaling some of her family’s stories to him. Dorian too was doing well, charmingly speaking to a small crowd of enraptured individuals, as was Vivienne. Frankly however, Lydia expected nothing else from the two. Out of all the members of her inner circle they were the ones who had been trained for this sort of thing, and they played the game of charm and wit and conversation well.

Blackwall, who made no secret of his humble origins, was doing better than perhaps anyone would have expected. At that moment he was laughing into his cup of fine Orlesian red wine, right next to Sera. He had promised Lydia earlier that he would “keep an eye on her,” knowing Sera and parties could be a chaotic arrangement. Amazingly Blackwall had the ability to reel Sera in, and the two of them sat at the table adjacent to Lydia, laughing and giggling. They were near Solas, who surprisingly was also doing remarkably well, though he wasn’t speaking with anyone. He seemed to be happy, sipping his wine as he observed. Leliana was near him, Lydia saw, and if she was unhappy, her gaze didn’t show it, and she nodded politely at some Orlesian lord whose name Lydia couldn’t remember. Most surprising of all however, was Bull. The man had attracted a following of Orlesians and Fereldans alike, all making no secret about how they adored fawning over him. Josephine was lax when it came to what the inner circle would wear to the fete, as she told them merely to be neat and wear something “clean.” (That was directed at Sera.) She did, however, insist Bull wear a shirt, advice he did not heed. Josephine may have cast him a dirty look earlier in the night, but the truth was, it might have been one of the best ideas Bull had ever had. He had his following completely and utterly enraptured, the lack of shirt adding to the spectacle he gladly put on.

“What do you do in your free time, Lady Inquisitor?” A certain salt and pepper haired Lord Francois asked her over Maryden’s soft lute, breaking Lydia away from her observations. In setting the placement for the banquet Josephine had made sure to seat him near Lydia, as Josephine suspected the two could find common ground. He loved to dance, and Lydia made sure to mention that one her hobbies happened to be the waltz.

“Then you will have to indulge me, my lady. Would you care to dance?”

“I would love to,” Lydia replied, “We will—”

He was already standing, outstretching his hand. When it occurred to her that he wanted to dance at that very moment, Maryden’s lute changed from idle soft music to a livelier tune, as if on cue. Francois took Lydia hand and rose her up, and a surprised cry escaped from her lips as he placed his hands on her waist and twirled her around.

“You know Yves, don’t you?” Francois asked, “He told me you were a wonderful dancer.”

“You may be a little beyond my talents,” Lydia said, her heart thundering as Francois continued to guide her along. “And I don’t think my shoes were made for dancing!”

He laughed with much gusto, surprising Lydia with how much breath he had to laugh in the midst of all the steps they were doing. “Your speech was lovely, my lady,” he said as the song slowed down, the two of them slowing in turn.

“I appreciate it,” she replied, trying to catch her breath. “Really.”

“It must not have been easy, to leave Ostwick.”

“It wasn’t,” she admitted. “But I’ve met good people here.”

“Indeed. Miss Montilyet is most accommodating, as is Commander Cullen. He allowed my wife to watch the drills a few mornings ago.”

“She must be a wonderful woman. Commander Cullen doesn’t like just anyone poking about.”

“He looks at you as though he has seen nothing more beautiful.”

She felt the fluttering of her heart, sharing a few more minutes of dancing with Francois until she had to move on. She tried to catch Cullen in the crowd, but before she could look long, a dark-haired man with small, squinting brown eyes asked for her hand to dance. Lydia instantly recognized him as Fabian, the son of Lord Seagard of Ferelden. He came on his father’s behalf, and according to Josephine, he “adored brunettes and was so notorious for being a serial womanizer, it was surprising he wasn’t Orlesian.” He was harmless however, Josephine said. But his family did have deep pockets.

Lydia resisted the urge to flinch. She felt as though Fabian was picking apart every detail of her face, pulling her a little too close. She supposed though, it could have been worse. Perhaps.

“Would you like to go someplace more private, my lady?” He asked as soon as the dance was done. “I hear Skyhold holds your many trophies of past victories."

“And leave these guests? I’m afraid I can’t. But Josephine, or someone else can show you around the keep another day.”

He didn’t move, and when she became aware enough time had passed and she should have moved on to the next dance, he didn’t let go. It was uncomfortable. She was uncomfortable, the fact he was holding onto her marked hand only heightening her discomfort. It was covered with her glove, yes, but she didn’t like it when others held onto it, or saw it even. Let the world be spared from something that was never supposed to be.

She wanted to jerk herself away, but reason kept her stilled. She couldn’t prepare herself however, when Fabian asked to see it.

Slowly, Lydia removed herself from him. They were already away from the other dancers, and carefully Lydia tried to go back to the safety of one of her friends. Josephine was nearby, Josephine could get her out of it.

“May I please?” he leered, the demand creeping into his words. The sense of entitlement.

She shook her head. “Now, some things are better left unseen, wouldn’t you say so?”

“No. I wouldn’t say so at all.”

She was pinned against the wall. One of his arms was against the stone, close to her skin. She didn’t want him to touch her, not ever again. “Lydia…” he drew, lowly and roughly. “Lydia…”

“Inquisitor,” she hissed.

“Inquisitor, mage,” he spat. “Pretty little thing, either way.”

She bit her lip, hard. So hard she was afraid she drew blood. She thought of Cullen during the ball at Halamshiral, and those that surrounded him and “preyed” on him, as he called it. Lydia sympathized then but she never understood—not until she had become this man’s prey. She hated it. She hated it. Wished it on no one and hated that Cullen had to go through with it.

Where was he?

He said he would look out for her. He said—

No one was coming. She had to take care of herself. She had to stop him herself.

“Leave me alone,” she ordered. “Don’t ever touch me again.”

“Sweetheart.”

“Do not call me that. Leave.”

“But—"

“Leave boy. Now.”

Her father’s baritone voice was hard, biting. Fabian tried to stutter an explanation, an apology, yet her father spoke again, demanding him to leave her alone.  
“Isn’t it what she wants?” Fabian garbled.

“I want you to leave Fabian,” Lydia stated. “Does that make it clear?”

He left and she didn’t even look to see where he had gone. She felt as though a cloud had been released, felt like she could breath again. And when her father put his hand on her back, he asked her if she was all right, if he hurt her.

“No,” she said. “He didn’t hurt me. I’m better now,” she promised. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.”

He didn’t leave her side, and no one else was rushing toward her yet, so she remained by him. “Are you enjoying yourself?” she asked.

“A fine fete,” he replied.

“Glad you think so.”

He regarded her fondly, perhaps seeing her mother. Maker. She hoped that was what he saw.

“You were wonderful, by the way,” he whispered.

“You told me that already,” she reminded him.

“I wanted to tell you again.”

She smiled, smoothing away errant locks of hair that had tumbled to her face. “Dance with me?”

He was puzzled. “We should show everyone how the Nevarrans dance,” she said, offering her hand. “Really father. Dance with me.”

A smile crept across his face. He took her hand, brought her into his arms, and then the two of them began to glide across the floor. Out of all her dance partners she had had, her father was the most surprising. Perhaps the waltz instructor Yves had better skill, and perhaps Francois had more energy, but her father took her in his arms and Lydia sensed he was the partner most suited for her. Strange, that she would ever think that of her father, after everything he did, but she truly felt that way. And for that one moment, one place in time, she had forgotten all that he had done to her. She was a little girl again, learning how to dance in her father’s arms. She was happy.

“You look so much like her,” he mused once more. “But it’s not only that. It’s everything you do. Your smile. The way you dance…”

“I wish she was here,” Lydia confessed. “I wish—”

“I do too.”

There was a pause, before he told her the most surprising thing of all. “We should move on, forget the past and what happened.”

Something wavered within her. “Father…you hurt me so much after she died,” she said, unsure why her words could not be held back. “I don’t—”

“I don’t expect you ever to forgive me,” he said. “Really. Lydia. But when this is over, and when the war is done…”

The music stopped, and gradually the two off them slowed. He steadied her. “Father,” she said, “what do you want?”

“Come back home. It’s where you belong.”

She turned her gaze away.

“Lydia?” he asked, gently. “Do you not want…?”

She spoke, and it was barely a whisper. “I don’t belong anywhere. Or to anyone. No one does.”

“That’s not true,” he muttered. “My father passed on our home to me, and now I must pass it on to you. It’s your birthright. It is where you belong.”

“Would you have ever said this to me before this?” she wondered. “Before I became the Inquisitor?”

“Lydia.”

“Please, don’t “Lydia” me,” she commanded.

His eyes were hard. “It is true,” he stated. “You cannot deny it. The woman I saw in front of the crowd, that was who you are. Ostwick is where you belong, not in between Ferelden and Orlais. Our legacy—”

“Legacy,” she muttered. “That’s all anyone ever cares about.”

She broke from his grasp, put as much space between her and her father as she could. She searched in the crowd of people, wondering if there even was a place she could belong. She searched and searched, and couldn’t find what she was looking for. And it didn’t take long for her to realize, it was because Cullen still hadn’t yet returned.

She saw his face, felt the ghost of his touch, the remembrance of his kiss. His arms. It was what she wanted more than anything then. That safe haven was what she longed for. Needed.

She was wrong before, when she spoke to her father. She did belong. To him.

But he was nowhere in the sea of faces. And she couldn’t find him.

 _Find me Cullen,_ she thought. Find me. _This isn’t me, this role. I’m not this person._

Yet she could not find him. She could not find him, the ball continued, Josephine whisking her back to Lord so and so and Madame someone, and Lydia was lost. Lost and unable to lose herself in this role that her mother so easily played.

It wasn’t her. It was never her. Because she was only ever herself when she was with him.

 

* * *

 

 

“Burning, fever. Hot. Someone is sticking a poker in my mouth. Only one cure. I cannot do this, I cannot do this. Not getting better…getting worse. Memories haunt, torment. Lydia doesn’t deserve this…”

“Cole. I know I don’t feel well. Please don’t do that--pry into my mind,” Cullen said. “Please.”

“It reminds you of Kinloch.”

Kinloch. His body racked, feigning off the unwanted memories.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Cole said. “Didn’t mean to…”

“I know.”

“But you don’t have to feel that way about Lydia.” He came closer. “Where do I belong? I belong with him. Where is he? He’s not here. He’s not here.”

Cullen closed his eyes, leaning against the walls. He wasn’t sure how long he had been away, though he knew it was long enough that his presence would be missed. He half expected someone to wander outside and find him, goad him as they did before, make this night worse than it already was. A few individuals already did in fact, a group of Orlesian women. Orlesians all looked the same to him, and he was swimming and unable to surface through the sea he was in, that they had to remind him they were the same ones from Halamshiral. Cole was in the garden, though Cullen didn’t know it at the time. Not until he came to the group and kindly informed them all that Cullen didn’t like any of them at all.

Needless to say they had left after that.

Cole kept him company since then, trying to help in his strange way. The burning in Cullen’s throat began after a while, the earth still continuing to spin. The cool night air did nothing to alleviate the heat and the fire.

Fire. There was fire that night, in the tower. Fire—

Burning. He tied not to remember, tried to shake it away…how her body had been so fragile when he held her. Then the demon…

No.

_No._

He clenched his fist. Why was he remembering now? Why did it have to be now? He needed to go back inside, to Lydia. But—

Elaine.

No. Not Elaine. No. But he was already remembering. Already seeing.

_You didn’t save me. This is your fault. Your fault._

“Lydia,” he muttered, helplessly, as if she could hear. “Lydia…”

“Templar.”

That voice. He remembered that voice, that night in Kinloch. Such scrutiny in it. Hate. Just like there was now. A mocking.

“No!” he screeched, back against the wall. “No…don’t…”

“Do not call him that,” Cole said. “No longer.”

Cullen opened his eyes. Cole was still there, standing near him as if he was some sort of guard. Morrigan. She was there too, near him. Just as she was there in the tower. He shouldn’t have been surprised. His men had said she stared into that strange mirror at the oddest hours, searching for answers she thought that strange Eluvian could bring. He only didn’t want to see her. He never wanted to see her. She made him remember.

“Memories,” Morrigan said. “I see.”

That set something off. “What do you mean you _see_?” he demanded. “You don’t know anything about what I have seen.”

“What I meant, was that I understand,” she said, much too calmly. “I understand. Things have brought back other things, and then I remember memories long suppressed. It is not a thing that happens solely to you.” She walked closer, he backed further away. She didn’t seem surprised. “But it is the lyrium that makes it more intense.”

“It’s not that,” he hissed.

“No. It is,” she insisted, with a damnable persistence. “Lyrium suppressed the memories before, and everything else. You are without it, have been for some time. I can see that now. Your body is aware of it, and acting accordingly. Memories you suppressed have come back.”

“It’s worse than that. It’s as though I am back there. And it happens without warning. Without provocation.”

“It happens like that sometimes. To me.”

He stumbled, in some vain attempt to get back to the ballroom, back to Lydia. “I need to go back.”

“You shouldn’t,” Morrigan said. “You aren’t well.”

“I—”

“No.”

“I have—”

“No. I am trying to help you, you stubborn fool!”

For the first time that night, he was grateful Lydia wasn’t there. He was grateful no one was there, save Morrigan and Cole, to see the Commander of the Forces of the Inquisition, stumble, fall, and collapse, not knowing what was happening or what was going on, and only that he was taken back to his room.

There was blackness, at first. And then, there was the screaming. He was back there, again.

But what was worse, was that he knew he would always be back. And no one was there to save him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "She walks in beauty" is a real poem by lord Byron. cullen's mom liked the thedosian equivalent :)  
> next chapter is going to be really long, and a doozy too. Once again, thank you all for reading!


	39. Perseverance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter may be triggering.

There was no use to try to forget. Always would he remember, always they would claw through his mind, or through the fade as he dreamed. Always he would ache.

They said that memories faded and ebbed away without the lyrium. Then why could he see it all with stunning clarity? Meredith ordering his death. Hawke weeping after the battle was over. The elf, Fenris coming over to him, grabbing him. Shouting at him and telling him it was his fault, as if Cullen didn’t already know. The impact, and the falling backward, blood pouring from his lip. Silently getting off the ground, and wiping the blood away. The bodies, littered everywhere without a care or thought. His friends. Children, lying in the rubble. The Knight Captain, still alive after it all, racked with guilt. Finally seeing after all those years of not seeing, knowing he went through the motions that led to all of this, so disembodied from that version of himself, but damn well knowing it was all him.

That was the thing about the guilt. It was worse than the memories. Things triggered his memories. Often without warning yes, but more often he remembered and was taken back there in the fade, where it was his to endure alone. But the guilt, it came without warning. Sometimes it was worse than the memories. Always was it worse.

The night was restless. Vaguely he remembered Cole, and that sorceress Morrigan leading him to his room. He also remembered her coming back. Bringing a tonic. She thinks you’re a stubborn ass, but wants to help, Cole said, but he didn’t take the potion. He fell asleep after, head barely hitting the pillow before he was back in Kirkwall. He shook when he woke, Cole pressing a compress over his head. You want to endure this alone, don’t you? Cole asked. You don’t want anyone to see, do you?

He must have fallen asleep again, because when he woke, Cole was gone. He fell asleep again. Woke up again, and repeated the ritual of shaking off the memories again. This time they were of Kinloch. Trapped for three days, no food or water. No lyrium. Drowning, and all he could hear was the voice of the demon.

_It’s me Cullen. It’s me._

_No…you’re not her. You’re not._

_I could be…let me be her. It would be better if you just resist…_

“Cullen!”

Startled, he jerked out of the bed. Rylen was in his room, the sun streaming from the roof. Morning already. He must have had an hour’s rest at most that night. “What are you even doing here?” Cullen asked, bewildered.

“You were yelling and screaming bloody murder. I had to do something. You were having a nightmare.”

“As if I hadn’t had one before,” he retorted, easing out of bed.

“I was worried. It didn’t sound good. Stop being such a dolt, and stop being such a stubborn arse.”

Cullen groaned. “Rylen, I would prefer if you wouldn’t have—ah.”

“What’s wrong?”

His body was shaking, and searing with pain. This was worse than it had been yesterday during the blasted fete. It was as if his body was calling out for it, calling for the blue vial. One last desperate plea. The hum was pulsating, loud, and deafening. Take me, take me now it sung.

Like he used to do when he was a child, unwilling to start the day, he covered his face with the pillow. Yet instead of blocking out the morning sun, he was trying to find a way to block out the pain. Block out the memories, block out everything. He did it, pretending it could work. Of course it didn’t.

Rylen hovered over him, calling his name. Cullen could hear his muffled voice from behind the pillow.

“Rylen, go away,” Cullen ordered.

“It’s bad today, isn’t it?”

He uncovered his face. “It’s not… _mhm_.”

There was another searing sensation that wracked his body, a smaller one this time, but still nearly unbearable. It lasted only a few moments, but it might as well have been hours. Rylen tried to get him to go back to the bed and lay down, but Cullen hobbled up, fighting back the small shockwaves.

“Do you want me to…?”

“No!”

“Are you sure?”

“No,” he repeated, not as harsh this time. “I’ll—”

Another. He grunted, slamming his palm against the wall of his room. It stung.

“Cullen, mate,” Rylen said, coming near him. “This is bad.”

“Clearly,” he replied through his gritted teeth.

He hobbled back to the bed, collapsing on the mattress, and rubbing furiously at his eyes. He had to get up, suffer through the day like he had so many other times before. He had to check on the requisitions, run through the drills, check on his wounded men in the infirmary. Deal with the aftermath of that blasted party. Make sure he avoided Lydia, knowing seeing her now would be too much. Not wanting to put her through this.

“Maybe you should rest mate,” Rylen suggested.

What he needed was to find a way to endure. But the pain, and seeing Kirkwall again…Neria again, after he tried so hard to—

“Cullen, what’s wrong?”

He buried his face in his hands as if that could block out the memories. It never could before, yet for some inane reason he thought it could do it now. Thought it could block out the call. It was so loud. Deafening, and—

“I can’t be like this Rylen,” Cullen found himself saying. “Our men deserve me at their best.”

There was no hesitation. “You are not taking it.”

Cullen scowled. “It was a mistake to ever try.”

With no warning, Rylen put his hands on his shoulders, shook him. “It wasn’t!” he exclaimed, thinking maybe he could shake sense back into him. “If you take it now, who knows what that’ll do. It’s been nearly a year. Your body is getting rid of the last of it. After that…”

“Dammit Rylen, that’s what they told me a week ago, after Elaine. It’s worse now. It can’t just be that! Do you know how hard I’ve tried to forget that damn, awful, fucking place?”

Rylen recoiled, holding his tongue. What could he say? What was there ever to say? Cullen knew only one. So glaringly obvious as it was. Inevitable. Always had been.

“I’m going to speak to Cassandra,” Cullen said, reaching for his boots, wiping away the sweat when he couldn’t put them on. “I’ll recommend you as my replacement.”

There was a moment where Rylen processed what was being said. Then he stared, mouth agape. “Cullen…”

“Come off it Rylen. You’re a good choice.”

“You can’t do that. This is just a rough patch. You’ll—”

“At least be happy!” Cullen remarked. “I cannot put the army at risk.”

“You’re not giving yourself enough credit.”

“You don’t understand what I’ve gone though.”

“I don’t?” Rylen demanded suddenly. “As if I wasn’t there right along with you? As if I didn’t pick up any dead bodies? As if I didn’t see anything I can’t forget? No. I may not know everything. But taking it again, it won’t help.”

There was yet another convulsion and shiver that racked his body. The third. The worst. He suffered through it, thinking it his punishment for lashing out. He shouldn’t turn people away. But that was what he always did, didn’t he? Turned his family away, turned everyone who wanted to help away.

He glanced up, at Rylen. “Maybe it would help.”

“She won’t let you.”

It was in his trunk, his lyrium kit. He could hear the hum, if he listened hard enough. It called, compelled. Begged him.

“I'll see what Cassandra says about replacing me," he said.

Rylen kept his steely eyes on him as he descended the loft.

 

* * *

 

 

“Where’s Cullen?”

Josephine looked up from her paperwork. “I sent him a missive this morning. I told him he really didn’t have to be here, unless there was something he wanted to discuss.”

“I’m surprised you don’t know,” Leliana said, smirking. “You two sharing your quarters has been quite the discussion of late.”

Lydia didn’t know if he came to her room or not last night. She was so tired by the time the fete ended, after being shuffled from pompous lord to insufferable noble, that she almost fell asleep with her dress on. Come morning, Cullen wasn’t there. Though that wasn’t usually surprising, he was the earlier riser typically.

“Though I would like to speak to him,” Josephine said. “He created quite a problem last night. Lady Lorelai was prattling about how he was short with her.”

“He…oh no.”

“Lydia, where are you going?”

 _Damn, damn, damn, damn_. She should have gone looking for him last night, damn how tired she was. But she happened to find Rylen in the throne room, and he told her that Cullen was fine, he just didn’t want her to worry.

“I’m sorry,” Lydia said, about to depart from the war room. “We can talk later. We’re going to have to.”

“Is something wrong?”

“Probably. I have to find out.”

She jogged through the halls, out of Josephine’s office and back into the throne room. She regretted her wardrobe choice already. That morning she had thrown on a white peasant blouse with her olive green skirt, and flat shoes, not the best if she was in a hurry. Maker, if something happened to Cullen, if had been triggered again and she wasn’t there…

“Lydia, I—”

 _Fuck._ It figured she would run into him. “Go away,” she spat to her father.

He wasn’t going to listen. “Lydia!”

“Not here father!”

“Dammit, I want to talk to you! One minute of your time. One minute and then I won’t bother you!”

Reluctantly she turned round, leading her father into the library where Dorian usually. Luckily Dorian wasn’t there, no doubt he was spending an early morning with Bull. In any other circumstance other than the one she was in, she would have laughed. “What?” she demanded from her father, crossing her arms. “I don’t have time to talk. Make it quick.”

“Last night,” he began, taking a deep breath before, “I was merely trying to explain that—”

“Legacy. I know,” Lydia said. “But I could give two shits about that.”

He didn’t appreciate the profanity. Grimacing, he scoffed, “It’s where you belong. What you were born into.”

“And you cast me aside. I found where I belong.”

“With him? With Cullen? That son of a farmer?”

She clenched her fist. She wanted to strike him for bringing him into it. “Yes,” she seethed.

“You can’t possibly think that will last.”

He was so arrogant, so assuming. “I don’t think,” she said. “I know.”

“You must have thought it was meant to be with that Asher as well. Look how quickly you cast him aside. But he wasn’t for you and neither is the commander. No one is. Ostwick. Our home, our estate. It’s the only thing that matters. Our legacy will last. These people won’t. What you feel for them won’t. Your feelings for the Commander. Your brother’s feelings toward that artist…none of it will—”

“My…what?” She stared. “Aedan? My brother? What do you mean? Is this why you came to me, and demanded this of me? Only because my brother won’t?”

He took a deep breath, calming himself. “Your brother met someone. Another man. Artist from Markham. I told him it was just a phase. It would pass. Just as this will pass.”

“Fuck you.”

She may has well have struck him with fire. “Lydia…”

“If what my brother feels for this man is a fraction of what I feel for Cullen, it’s real. It will last. Fuck your legacy father. Fuck you. Now leave. Don’t speak to me again.”

“Lydia…”

“Go.”

She felt the fire pool in her fingertips as she heard his footsteps descend the stairs. It took everything in her power not to let the whole place burn. She fell against the bookshelves, fell and sank onto the floor.

One tear escaped. She wiped it away. She would shed no more tears for him.

It all made sense now, why he came. Her brother was the heir, she the spare, and when Aedan refused to carry on a show and marry someone else to continue the fucking legacy, just as Dorian did, her father went to the spare. Better now, that she had made something of herself. Better to have a mage grandchild than to not have one at all, and let the Trevelyan legacy crumple.

“Fuck…” she muttered. “fuck…”

“Inquisitor?”

Lydia scrambled to stand, smoothing out her dress and her hair in some attempt to pull herself together. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” Rylen huffed, not seeming to care either way. The man looked as though he ran all around Skyhold. His face was red and there were tiny droplets of sweat on his brows.

“Rylen,” she said, trying to shake away what had just transpired. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s Cullen.”

And just like that, she wanted to sink to the floor again. “Dammit!” she cursed, her hand slamming down on the bookcase. “I should have gone to him last night! Shouldn’t have believed you when you told me.”

“He didn’t want any help from anyone really,” Rylen said. “He was outside in the garden during the party with that Cole…person. And that sorceress Morrigan. He didn’t want to worry you.”

“Morrigan was there?” Lydia asked, flabbergasted.

“Yes, she tried to help him. Even offered him a tonic to stop the pain. Of course he didn’t take it, stubborn goat. I helped them bring him back to his room, but he said he didn’t want any help from anyone.”

“Even me?”

Sheepishly, Rylen nodded.

“Fuck” was becoming her favorite word that day. She muttered it three times under her breath, before attempting to compose herself. “Where is he now?” she asked, trying not to panic.

“He’s going to talk to Seeker Pentagahst. He wants to be replaced.”

Her insides seized. Her breathing stopped. The earth was moving funny. “You can’t let him do this,” Rylen said, as everything wobbled. “He’s worked too hard to be replaced.”

“But why does he want to be replaced?” she asked, the earth still not stable, as it should be, her heart still thumping. “I thought we were working through this. He told me he was better. I thought it was the stress of losing Elaine.”

“It got worse yesterday. I don’t know why, neither does he. But that witch—Morrigan. She thinks it will pass. And if he took that bloody tonic she gave him…”

“Why does he refuse help?”

“I don’t know,” Rylen said, resigned. “It was bad in Kirkwall. I know he still goes back there sometimes. Shite, I still take lyrium, and I have problems. I can’t imagine what he goes through.” He shook his head. “You have to tell him to stay.”

She felt so helpless. “I want him to stay more than anything. But Rylen, if—”

“Please listen to me,” Rylen said, frantic and nearly mad, just as she was. “Look, if he leaves, he fails. He wanted to come here and start a life without the Templars. He stopped the lyrium because that’s what keeps us all chained. The chantry, the Templars, everything that happened can’t own him anymore if he stopped. But if he leaves, or he goes back on it, then he tells himself, and all the rest of us that it’s not possible to break away. The lyrium is always going to be there. And dammit, I can already feel myself start to forget…” He ran his fingers through his brown hair, clenching his eyes shut. “I want to stop when this is over,” he said at last, continuing. “And I’m not the only one. A lot of us want to stop when we’re no longer needed here. We need Cullen to stay, without the lyrium, to let us know that it is possible to break away. Cullen needs to succeed. For us, for him. You too.”

He looked at her, his eyes pleading. She never suspected he could be this distraught. Compassion brought her to put her hands on his shoulders. They took a moment together, a moment to breathe.

“I’ll go talk to him,” she promised.

“You’re the only one that can convince him,” Rylen said. “Please. They’re in the armory now.”

Cullen wasn’t in the armory when Lydia arrived, but Cassandra still was. “This is ridiculous,” she said about the situation, throwing her hands in the air.

“Please don’t tell me he wants to leave,” Lydia pleaded.

“First it was ‘find a replacement.’ When I refused, it was ‘then maybe I should take it again.’ Lydia, if he goes back on it, it would destroy him.”

She knew, Maker, she knew that. “Why is he being so bloody stubborn?” she asked to no one in particular. “Why didn’t he ask me for help when he needed it yesterday?”

“I suspect he didn’t want you to worry about him during the fete.”

“Fuck those people. It’s all titles, legacy and saving face. I belong with him. Not with them. They can all rot.”

Cassandra didn’t say anything.

“The Templars devote their lives to serving the chantry,” Lydia mused. “And this is what they get.”

She remembered Asher, always so bitter about being a templar. The unwanted extra mouth to feed, he called himself, shipped to the Order so the family could have some honor. And he wasn’t the only one. Many were promised to the order before they knew what it all meant, before they were old enough to decide it they wanted that life. Their lives could have been their own. Maybe if they could choose, and not kept locked and chained through the blue vial, they wouldn’t have turned out as they did.  
And then there were people like Cullen, who wanted to protect. Punished for thinking of others before their own selves, made to be chained to a life that no doubt gave them so much hardship. It made her ill. Nightmares of failed harrowing, innocent people dying at the hands of demons, and the blue vial, that turned them into slaves.

“Mages have made their suffering known,” Cassandra began, staring at the fire. “But Templars never have. Bound by the order, someone always holding the lyrium leash. But Cullen can break that leash. He can.”

“I don’t want him to leave, Cassandra. Our soldiers trust him. Fuck, I—” she was on the verge of tears again. She held them back. “He can’t leave, but if he’s in pain, then what can I do?”

It was pain she probably couldn’t even imagine. His body had taken lyrium for so long, it might have been breaking down without it.

How could she watch the man she love crumple into a shell?”

“The way to help him is to go talk to him.” Cassandra said. “Lydia. Please.”

The walk to his office felt never ending. When at last she arrived, she took a long and deep breath. She also had to remind herself, that it was going to have to be what he wanted.

She didn’t want him to leave. Didn’t want him to have to end something he worked so hard for, for the sake of his soldiers, for her sake. But Cullen never thought of himself. That fact became plain as day as he took her into his heart. And he never asked for help. Sometimes he flat out refused it.

She remembered as she held him in the courtyard, recalled what he said. He said it was his to endure alone. It wasn’t. But if he didn’t want help, refused it, then what could she do?

Another deep breath. Then she opened the door.

A shriek escaped from her lips as something flew toward her, and her reflexes sent her flying across the room in the fade step. It was what Vivienne taught her, and what became second nature when arrows or bolts of lighting were hurled at her in battle. Now she was in a different kind a battle, one with a man she cared too deeply for. And one who had thrown a lyrium kit at her.

“Maker’s breath!” He exclaimed. “I didn’t hear you enter.”

“It’s fine,” she answered, catching her breath. His desk had stopped her, normally she would have darted quite a bit of distance. “I just want to talk to you.”

“You don’t need to—“

“Cullen!”

He groaned as his leaned on the side of his desk for support. He held out his hand, a barrier of sorts, blocking Lydia from coming to him.

“I never meant for this to interfere,” he said sadly.

“I just want to know if you’re going to be all right.”

“Yes,” he said, too quickly.

“Cullen…”

His laugh was bitter, so unlike him. “I know what you’re thinking,” he accused. “You’re thinking about how pathetic I am.”

“No, that’s not what I was thinking at all,” she tried to assure, though he didn’t believe her. “I think you’re brave, and wonderful, and I—“

“Stop,” he ordered, clenching his eyes shut. “Stop.”

“Why didn’t you find me last night Cullen? I would have helped you.”

“You had too much to worry about. I was fine.”

“Clearly not! It’s not getting better. I thought it was getting better. Did it just spring up during the fete? Did someone remind you of…?”

“No,” he stated. “No one reminded me. No trigger. I felt it that morning, when I woke up, that something was going to happen.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because you shouldn’t have had to worry!”

“I don’t mind worrying. I’m supposed to worry about you. I’m your lover. And I—”

“If you only knew.”

She didn’t understand, didn’t know what to say as he turned to the window, facing away from her. His hands were pressed against the stone for support. She considered meeting him there, placing her hand on his back and reeling him into her arms, but she remained rooted, heart beating too fast.

“Cullen,” she said, trying to find her voice. “I knew who you used to be when I said I wanted to be with you. But that’s not you anymore.”

“I’m always back there. Every time I think I can escape it…I can’t. And it’s not just Kirkwall,” he said, back still turned toward her. “The Blight. Kinloch, when the abominations took over the tower. The Templars, the mages, my friends were slaughtered. They tortured me, tried to break my mind, but…” he how can you be the same person after that?”  
His hand against the wall was shaking. She reached out to him, but he pulled himself away. “The demon, trying to break my mind…that’s not even the worst part.” His words were uneasy, his voice breaking. “Do you know who had to go back and count the dead? I did. I saw them all. Bevell, Daniel, Ariana. Neria.”

“Cullen….”

He brushed her touch away. He may as well have struck her. “After everything, I still wanted to serve,” he said. “Out of fear, out of paranoia, out of hope I can stop something like that from every happening again. So they sent me to Kirkwall. I trusted my Knight Commander, and for what? Her fear of the mages ended in madness. Innocent people died on the streets. And I did nothing to—”

“That’s not true,” Lydia said, cutting him off. “You stood with Hawke in the end.”

“You weren’t there!” he shouted, too suddenly that Lydia recoiled. “You only heard about it second hand. I believed the things I said. I believed I was doing the right thing. But I should have known that it was wrong.”

He was pacing now, back and forth like a man possessed. “How many lives depend on our success?” he demanded, settling near his bookshelves. “I will not give less to the Inquisition as I did the chantry. I should be taking it!” She jumped as he slammed his fist into the bookshelves, making several tumble out. He repeated it, again and again.  
I should be taking it. I should be taking it.

She came closer. “So many lives are at stake,” he said. “If I can’t do this without the lyrium…if I cannot endure…Lydia.”

He said her name softly, like he would have if they were anywhere else. That was what made the tear fall, a tear she quickly wiped away. Not seeing the Cullen she had never seen before, but seeing the Cullen she loved and adored, and belonged to.

“Lydia. If I cannot endure, if I cannot make it through this, then you have to tell me to leave.”

“No,” she stated. “No. Cullen. You belong here. You belong with me.”

“Then you have to tell me to take it.”

Was that what he wanted? She didn’t know. Not for sure. She didn’t know anything, save one solitary memory that floated through her mind. One with Asher, after the Circle fell. After her father turned her aside.

She had to go back to the Circle after, because there was nowhere else for her. But she was found by one of the rogue Templars. Whalen was his name, the one who left immediately when the rebellion broke. He was dissatisfied with Knight Commander Jovan’s feelings about neutrality and left in disgrace. Whalen was one of the Templars that hated, and in his freedom, he came after Lydia. He mocked her as he held her, his sword digging through her robe, creating a long scar that she still bore. Always thought she was so entitled in the Circle, he mocked, and he was going to enjoy watching her die. And that was when Asher found her.

He knocked Whalen to the ground, and Lydia remembered the blood. It was the first time she had ever seen so much blood, and she wondered what she would have done if she knew it wouldn’t be the last. Asher then tended Lydia’s wound, and she held him afterward, half crazed and mad as he was. But even in his madness he had only one plea.

“Lyrium, I need it. Please kitten. I will not last long without it. I will die without it. Give it to me.”

She gave him the vial, the last one she had before he disappeared. Always would his half-crazed face burn in her mind. Maker, it still did. Yet she knew, it would never haunt her the way that Cullen haunted her now. Even if he had that same look in his eyes, the one Asher had. The same dark circles, the same madness that craved the lyrium’s song that no one should ever hear. Yet Cullen was so much worse. Because it was worse. Because she loved him.

And she couldn’t watch Cullen fall. Not her mark, nor Corypheus could kill her. Yet that, that could.

“I can’t watch you die.” Lydia said. “If something happens to you I’d…oh Cullen. I don’t want to think of it.”

“If you think it’s necessary...”

“I don’t know…I don’t know!” She ran her hands through her hair. She didn’t dare look at him, she wouldn’t be able to bear it.

“This, I should never have tried. I chose that life, I chose it. I should be taking it. I should be taking it. It’s for the best. For the Inquisition, I—”

“But this doesn’t have to be about the Inquisition!” She exclaimed. “Is this what you want?”

“ _No_.”

His clenched fist eased. He sank to the floor. Before she knew it she was sinking to the floor right along with him.

“No,” he muttered, once more. “No. But these memories have always haunted me. If I cannot endure them…”

She caught the sight of it—one last vial of lyrium, right on his desk. How easy could it have been, to get up and hand it to him. Perhaps that wasn’t such a cruel thing to do. No more memories, no more remembering Kinloch, or Kirkwall, or Elaine, or what he didn’t do. No more pain.

How easy to get up, and give it to him. How easy to not think of the cost, not until it was too late.

But then he wouldn’t be her commander anymore, if he went back to the vial. He wouldn’t be the man she loved. He would be his old self, the man he wanted to put himself away from. The man that didn’t write to his family, because he didn’t want them to know how far he had fallen. And it wouldn’t happen at first. No, the lyrium would gradually take more of him away, disguising itself as a good thing, when it was really killing him. Slowly at first, but more gradual, until there was nothing left, save an empty shell. How could she force him down that path?

Slowly, she cupped his face with her hand, wiping away the perspiration. Pools of amber and honey sadly watched her behind golden lashes. In his sad eyes, she caught a glimpse of who he was back then, when he said mages weren’t people. She saw deeper than the surface. He wasn’t a boy that truly hated, back then. Not like Whalen, or some of the others. He was a boy that had suffered. He was only frightened, broken from the death of his friends. He lost his innocence in a way no one should ever have to, and it became easier to mask the pain as hate than it did to heal. And who was there to help him heal?

Yet despite everything, he had begun again. Perhaps he still was beginning. A work in progress, if she fancied that term.

This part, this scene. It was nothing on his path to beginning again.

“You can,” she whispered.

The silence deafened the room, and she thought for a moment that he would disagree with her and take the vial. Another moment of silence.

But, slowly, carefully, he placed his hand on hers.

“Alright,” said Cullen.

She pressed her forehead to his. The two of them breathed the same air, shared the same space. It was wonderful, safe, and she wanted to do something for him, if she could.

She could. “Remember when I was sad, and you told me the story of Cliodna?" she asked. "Let me tell you one now.”

“Is it a particularly sad story?” He muttered, half joking.

“Sometimes it makes me happy, other times it doesn’t,” Lydia admitted. “But if it’s too intense and I need to stop, you need to only tell me, and I’ll switch to the old Ferelden children’s tale about the bunny.”

When he smiled, even if it was only slightly, she felt the twinge of a small victory. Using this as an opportunity, she began to weave her tale. “When I was little,” she began, “my mother and father realized I was a mage. When I was taken away to live in the Circle, my mother couldn’t stop crying.”

She was so far removed from that moment, she thought it no longer bothered her. Yet as she sat with Cullen, she could feel the pressure of the tears that wanted to escape. So time hadn’t given her resilience to that memory then. Amid the myriad of other terrible memories that plagued her dreams, that one still stuck out.

That hardly mattered. She had to press on, for him. She had a point, or at least she hoped she did. “My mother held me for as long as she could before the Knight-Commander pulled me away.” She hoped he wouldn’t notice her voice crack. “He was kind, considering the circumstances. He even gave us a little more time. She held me in her arms and told me that no matter what happened to me, I would always be hers. She promised me I would see her again. Back then, I didn’t know she wouldn’t be able to keep that promise.” Despite her best efforts, a tear escaped. She quickly wiped it away. “I found out she died about five years later.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t want to tell you this just to wax on about my past sadness. For the longest time, I couldn’t think of my mother without remembering what happened. I couldn’t see any of the good memories. I could only see her face as I left for the Circle. I could only think of the broken promise. It became so bad, all I wanted to do was forget her. Forget I ever had a mother, or loved her. All because that one memory ruined them all.”

Lydia buried her face in her hands, pausing the story. She could feel Cullen’s eyes on her. “You don’t have to continue,” he said gently.

“No, I promised you a somewhat happy story. What I wanted to tell you was that later on, maybe even really later on, I was able to think of the good memories of my mother without the bad ruining them. Before that, I wanted to forget it all, because it would have saved me so much pain and hurt. But to not remember her bedtime stories, or how she always made me laugh, or the times we had together tending the roses…Those are memories I couldn’t bear to lose.” She leaned on. “It makes you forget the bad,” she continued, motioning to the discarded kit that was strewn about the room. “The bad, and everything else. But when you are forced to forget, you forget everything. And Cullen, I know there are some things you couldn’t bear to not remember.”

“You.”

The tears were silent, tears that he wiped away with his fingertips. There was no more need for words anymore, Lydia knew, but it was also no time for going.

“This is where I belong,” she muttered. “I belong with you.”

“No,” he murmured. “You don’t belong anywhere. To anyone. Just chose to stay with me. That’s enough.”

She took his hands. Kissed every finger. His strong palms. Yet when her lips lingered, moving to his wrist, his breath caught.

“Cullen?”

He yanked his hands away. Disgusted and ashamed he turned away from her, hiding his hands away. “I’m…I’m sorry,” he said.

“They’re a part of you.”

Silence. Silence, until he placed his hand in hers. Her eyes searched his for a yes, wanting to make sure. Letting him know it was alright to turn back.

He nodded, and she knew. He didn’t want to turn back. So she peeled the sleeve away.

She had known there were scars. Seen them when they were intimate, but those times had been flashes, and she in such a hazy blissful cloud that she didn’t think to get a better look. She assumed they were scars like the ones on the rest of his body. Little souvenirs from his past battles. Only later did she see, that he was trying to hide them from her. She didn’t think of why. Not until she saw the lines against his wrist. Lines, and small bruises long since healed. Small pinpricks, here and there.

“From the lyrium,” he said, voice heavy. “Meredith. She used to inject it inside, with a needle. I did sometimes too.”

“The lines?”

It became very quiet. Yet his shame, it was written on his face. "At Kinloch, for a moment, I thought that...“ He looked away. "I didn't, but...Maker I hate my hands."

She squeezed tighter. "I love your hands.”

“They’ve done so much wrong.”

“I love your hands. I love your scars. Because they’ve shown you’ve lived. And…” gently, she kissed his wrist. Kissed the scars. “Now you’re here. With me.”

His other hand cupped her jaw, caressed her cheek. “Lydia…”

“Yes, my love?”

He smiled, and it was beautiful. It was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. “Never stop calling me that.”

They remained for a long time after that. Neither kissing, nor caressing. Just holding hands, in their constellation. Not where she belonged, but where she chose to be.


	40. Summer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. chapter 40. Thank you to my readers <3

In that wide gap of time, Cullen had forgotten how the strong smell of leather mingled with the sweetness of hay was what he associated with home.

He was in the stables, waiting for her. Waiting, and thinking of his boyhood memories. He always thought he had seen too much to truly relieve those early years. Maybe that was why he seldom tried to remember them before. Yet sitting in the stables, thumbing his brother’s coin, he found another small victory in the series of victories that had been given to him since that day with Lydia. What he had seen, what he had lived through since leaving home, had no bearing on his memories from those happier times.

Better. He was better. Not just breathing and serviceable, but alive. He was alive, he was in love, and any minute she would be home. She would be in his arms. Finally, he could tell her what he had known to be true for forever.

It wasn’t immediate that he became better. When Lydia kissed the scars on his wrist, it didn’t make the pain or the ache go away. The memories were still there. But so was she. She told him through her kiss, and the way she held him, that he could. He believed her. He would believe anything she said to him.

He realized, somewhere in that delirium after she kissed the scars on his wrist and laid him down on his bed, that he couldn’t shake away help that was offered. Or maybe that was something Lydia said, and he would have agreed with anything she said at the time, because she had kissed his scars and accepted all of him. Still, even later he knew it was true. He couldn’t push people away. So when Lydia suggested to just take the tonic Morrigan had so kindly laid out for him, he did.

It didn’t fully make the memories go away, yet it abated them. For that, he knew he had to thank her. he did so, that very day in fact.

“Do you look at me and remember when we first met?” Morrigan asked him when he came to her in the garden, the question taking him by surprise.

“Yes,” he admitted. “But that’s not all I see.”

“Someone you don’t trust?”

“Not entirely,” he admitted, most of his distrust coming from that Eluvian. “But you are someone who helped me.” And he had to concede to that. “Thank you.”

There was a hint of a grin on her face. “I don’t look at you and see only a templar either,” she replied, before going back to work. It meant more than she knew.

Cullen stood after, thinking to apologize to Cole as well, and thank him for helping him that night, though he brushed him away in some twisted logic that he had to endure this alone. Then again, he suspected Cole already knew he regretted what he did, knew he was better. And if not, he would turn up eventually. He usually did pop in his office every now and then. _Uldred marked you, but you stayed you,_ he would say, as he usually did. Next time he would say it, Cullen would believe.

Cullen headed straight for the stables instead, thumbing his brother’s coin. She had left it with him, before she departed when they talked together. They spoke of everything and nothing, and though she must have sensed why he had the scars, and perhaps wanted to ask about them, she didn’t. She waited for him. He loved her even more because of that. Then when the time came, she did not even want to go and leave him. But there was trouble in the Emerald Graves with Fairbanks. More red templars and sightings of a dragon, and she had to go. She left his coin with him, for luck she said.

“You better not fight that dragon without this,” he mumbled, her hand in his.

“I become nervous when I carry it around in my pocket, to be honest,” Lydia admitted. “I wish there was a way to have it with me, always.”

“Maybe there is.”

“Please Cullen. Hold onto it. give it back to me when I’m home. Nothing will happen to me, so long as you have it. I know.”

A week and a half passed after that. Day by day, he took the potions. Accepted help. That was when he got the news from Branson. It wasn’t the hour that he first believed. But it was the hour that he remembered again, what he was fighting for.

His heart skipped. She was back. She was home.

There wasn’t a time when he looked at her and wasn’t struck by how lovely she was. She was wearing her riding outfit, black jacket with matching breeches, riding boots, and a red scarf to cover her neck. Her hair was in a side braid, her cheeks flushed and rosy from riding. She was more beautiful in the stables than she was standing in the throne room, as stunning as she was in the blue dress. Yet in the throne room she seemed unreal, as the paintings of the goddesses in the old stories. Here in the stables she was earthy and grounded, and real.

She saw him. He became even more alive.

“I wasn’t sure you would be here,” she admitted. “Thought maybe you would still be in bed.”

“I told you I was well in our letters,” he reminded her.

“Yes,” she said, smiling. “But…oh.” She outstretched her arms. “It doesn’t matter. Come here.”

Arms locked around his neck, and he wrapped his arms around that sensual curve of her waist. Out of all the women in the world, he would have wagered that only this woman would fit this perfectly in his arms. “I was able to stand again after you left,” he said. “Don’t worry though. I only did reports. I had Rylen run through the drills. The memories. They’re still there. But…”

“I hate you have to go through that. Always remember.”

“It’s better now. Manageable. And now you’re here, and…oh.” He lost his words as he held her closer, buried himself in her scent and her everything.

“What?” she prodded, gentle and kind in her words, asking him to go on.

“You believe,” he said. “That’s all I need.”

“No.”

Surprised, he blinked as she shifted to peak at him, caressing his cheek. “I believe yes, but it was because of you. It was because you believed. Not me.”

“I...think you’re right.”

She stood on her tiptoes, rising to kiss his forehead. He wanted to tell her the news, but he thought it best to wait until it was just the two of them. It was why he hasn’t kissed her yet. They weren’t exactly alone—Cassandra, Solas and Sera were still filtering about (Solas not even caring by the looks of things, Cassandra pretending not to care, but caring anyway, and Sera not even hiding her titters.)

Then, he decided, he simply didn’t care.

There was no one else on the earth as their lips met and part. Cullen, and Lydia. Together and joined. A simple kiss, one that tasted of reunion, and everything else they had been through, to be all the sweeter. And only sweeter, would it become.

“There’s something I want to tell you,” he said. “Well. Two, actually.”

“Hmmm. What would that be?”

“Later, when we’re alone,” he muttered, voice laced with promises.

She pushed a fallen curl from her face, coquettishly in anticipation. “I have something to tell you too, actually,” she said. “But later. When we’re alone.”

“What’s stopping us now?” he wondered, lowering his voice.

“There’s something I have to do.”

He thought he knew what it was. It was one of the things they talked about before she left, and in letters that she sent him in the Graves. Her father, and what he said and did. Cullen was proven right, when she mentioned that he was waiting for her outside the fortress.

“I hope you mean to curse him again,” Cullen said.

“I still have a few more up my sleeve, and I’ll use them if need be.”

“The man is lucky I wasn’t well.”

“I know.”

He said it before, but he said it again, about how sorry he was. “If you don’t want to see him…” he brought up.

She sighed. “I don’t think I’ll ever see him again after today. The least I can do is this one last thing.”

“Do you want me there?”

“No,” she replied, gentle. “I think this is something I have to do on my own.”

He kissed her forehead, “I’ll be waiting,” he promised.

“I won’t let you wait too long," she said,  and he knew that always to be true.

 

* * *

 

 

Her father took her around Skyhold, behind the fortress and away from the line of sight of one of Cullen’s passing soldiers. He hardly said anything, only gestured for Lydia to follow him round back.

“This is a little suspicious,” Lydia said to her father’s back.

“I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you Lydia.”

“Do you really think—”

“Hush. This is it.”

“It” turned out to be a small and grassy grove, shaded by an elder tree in bloom. Lydia had never ventured to the back of the keep before. Never thought of it. Yet it was a small little paradise, hidden away amongst the rest of the Inquisition. A place of hidden beauty. A secret place.

She drifted under the shade of the tree, the small blooms of elderflower falling like snow from the branches. Some of the blooms fell into her hair. Her father too drifted, standing side by side with her. Gently and slowly, he lifted his hand. Though she did not move, she felt herself brace, as if he would strike her. There was no need, merely instead he removed a few blooms from her hair. Yet it broke her heart, wounded her more than she ever suspected she could fathom, that her first reaction to her father would always be to brace herself for whatever pain he may cause. Twice in her life it had happened. She didn’t know why she was hoping things would change, for the third time.  
He knew her thought before she could even voice it. “I am sorry, for all I have ever done. For all I have ever said. And I know it’s not enough.”

He said it before. Saying it again wouldn’t help, even if he did say it in a hidden paradise. Lydia didn’t see the point. And before she could ask, her father said the most surprising thing of all.

“This place reminds me of your mother.”

There were memories of her mother Lydia cherished and held close to her. Mostly memories of the times they spent together in the garden, planting roses and making bouquets to adorn their home. There were other memories though, that Lydia didn’t have. Perhaps because time was cruel sometimes, and made some memories naturally ebb away with the passage of seasons. Slowly and gradually, standing there with her father, he made one of her memories of her mother ebb back. The memory of her mother, stowing Lydia away to “secret places.” Places behind the castle, were they could pretend they were gallant knights, perhaps like Cullen would have when he was a boy. Secret coves on the beach, where they would swim and make believe they were creatures from the sea.

Before she did that with Lydia, she did that with her father. Took him away to a secret place, where they could exist as another. Lydia knew then, or perhaps merely only realized it.

“You still love her,” Lydia murmured, more to herself than to him. “Temporary, you called my love for Cullen, and my brother’s love for the artist. But you still love her. You could have remarried. Found someone else to carry on your legacy, but—”

“Lydia,” he said, though his voice cracked. “I think of all the places she used to take me. They’ll all live on. This place, Skyhold, it will endure and last. But what your mother and I had didn’t last.”

“Didn’t it though, in a way? You still love her.”

Her father did not cry in the grove, in the secret place. He didn’t have to, for Lydia to know that every word he spoke had his tears engrained.

“I miss her every day.”

It was something they had in common. It was more than she ever thought they would have.

“She loved you,” he said next.

“I know,” Lydia murmured. Despite her broken promises, she knew.

She stood with her father, for that last time. He did not cry. He did not have to, for Lydia to at last see the broken heart he tried so hard to hide. As he did not cry, they did not embrace. They did nothing save stand together in a solidarity built upon their sorrow for missing the same person. Yet it meant more than any word he said to her since he came back into her life.

Her mother. How they both still loved. How temporary, was their time together with her, though the love was still there.

It looked like for the first time in ages, her father was beginning to realize how that love stayed.

It was enough. 

 

* * *

 

 Changed from her riding outfit to a billowy red skirt and white tunic that hung loose from her shoulders, Lydia took Cullen’s hand and told him to close his eyes. He followed her, out of his office and down the steps, around the fortress.

“Alright,” she said, nearly a whisper. “Open your eyes.”

He took in the grove, breathed in air. Leather and hay was the smell of home. So was this, the smell of elderflowers, and grass. And Lydia. Lydia was home.

“My father brought me here, before he left Skyhold,” she said. “See, my mother used to take me to secret places, and my father too before I was born. Secret places where we didn’t have to be who we were. I thought…well. I thought this could be our secret place.”

“It’s perfect.”

“You like it?” She beamed, rosy and glowing and taking his hands. “I was worried that—”

“Lydia…do you hear that?”

“Do, what…?”

“Music. Dance with me.”

The “music” wasn’t merely the sound of the rustling leaves and the wind. The music was the song that Lydia sang, and the one that she danced to. The one that he struggled to hear, struggled to keep up with before. Perhaps that was because they had to create one that belonged to the two of them. That was what they did that moment, in their secret place. They danced to a song known only to them, and danced to a melody only they could hear. One that they created.

“I won’t want to move on, when this is over,” he found himself muttering, still moving her along to that intrinsic rhythm that belonged only to them. “But I don’t know if…”

“Cullen.” Her hand slide down his neck, caressed his cheek. “Do you need to ask?”

She touched him, and it was fire.

He further pressed her into him. “I suppose not.” His breath caught. “I want…”

“Us. But…”

Forever. He knew. “You have me. Until…”

“Shh,” she placed her finger against his lips. “No until. Just choose me. Choose us.”

Should he have said always? It implied too much, perhaps more than he could give.

But he could. For her. For them. He could.

“Always.”

They swayed together, and they kissed. They danced in that kind of way lovers who had been together for one hundred years danced. Then, they started to dance in another way.

Neither could say were it began, just as neither could say where he began, and she ended. Their hearts beat in tandem, their skins both felt as fire felt. Lydia’s fire, coursing through her blood now coursing through his, right along with his soul. Kisses were exchanged as hands drifted. Not fully removing clothes, but sliding them down to kiss and lavish shoulders and breast and any skin they could find. He wondered if he should, if they should, here and now, but any wonder dissipated when once more, Lydia’s lips found his. Slow she was, in her kiss. Deliberate. Moving her leg down his body, imploring him to remain as he was, on top of her.

Hands fiddled with buckles. Another hand lifted skirts, removed smalls. Then there was more, hands drifting down his back, down further, gripping him and further sliding off unneeded layers of clothes. She reached for him. Wanting, waiting. His hand, caressing her neck, her cheek, was his asking. Making sure, this was what she wanted. Here, and now with him.

“We don’t have…if you want to stop…”

“You know, it’s the same for you, right?”

He didn’t think he could love her more, before she asked. Didn’t think there would be other way she could accept and love him and understand than she hadn’t already. Yet this beautiful, brave woman, he found, would always find a way to surprise him. Always would he add another star to the heavens, stars that were the ways and reasons he loved her.

It was a rain of kisses, an exchange of heady breaths and sighs. Kisses interspersed and mixed between. “Is…are you?” he began to say, before he felt her legs coil and wrap around him in reassurance. Kisses on her neck, eliciting more moans as he moved inside her, before their lips met again. She was so warm, both the way she felt everywhere and the way she felt around him.

It was better than feeling good, better than those ephemeral sensations he remembered in the days before her, when love wasn’t for someone like him. His joy at realizing it was, and he could feel that kind of love, for _Lydia_ at that, was a joy like wildfire. Almost overwhelming in the way that it coiled and gripped him. It wasn’t right to call it "enough," because “enough” elicited a feeling of settling. Never. It could never be that. She found him. Clung to it and became his second self. And loosing her would be akin to losing a part of his soul.

And she had chosen him. She had chosen him. Loved him.

Love. Such a word. Such a word that so many meanings, to so many different people. As his fingers drifted toward her center, and he felt her end, soft and rolling as it was around him, he knew what it meant for the two of them. Trying. Giving her his winter, and her being there all the same. Kissing the scars on his wrist, accepting. Seeing all of him. Doing the exact same for her.

He had given her his winter. He couldn’t promise winter would never come again. But he could promise her, he would always try to find summer.  
Lydia would always make it easy to find summer.

“I love you,” she said, as he came in her arms.

“I love you too,” he whispered back, as her kisses brought him back to earth. “So much.”

“You know, you're stuck with me, I’m afraid. I don’t intend to let you go. If things get hard…”

He couldn’t resist. His smile was devilish. “I’m sure they will, you know. But—”

“You… _Cullen_!”

They laughed together, in their secret place, and afterward he assured her, so long as he breathed, he would stay with her. Through the winter, the spring, the summer. He would stay. Always.


	41. Dawn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They needed this together <3

How long had they been like that? Hours must have passed since they left the grove, their secret place, to his bed. He took her upstairs, stripped her of all her clothes, and engrained his love and want into her skin, before burying his head between her legs. Did they sleep at all? They must have. It was evening when they came to his room, and from the way the sun streamed through his unpatched roof, she figured it must have been early morning.

Their “good morning” to each other was a deluge of soft caresses, kisses, and murmurs of their love She was languid, still in that hazy bliss given to her from his lovemaking. Cullen kissed by the book and made love to her in a way that made her believe her body was his temple, and molded and shaped exactly for him. More than happy, she was. Blissful. Giddy. If he asked, she would have been able to fly.

She brushed her fingertips against the line of his body. “Are you happy, my love?” she whispered to him.

Soft kisses were left on her neck. “Happier than I have ever been. Or even thought possible.”

Sighing, he rested his head on her breast, breathing in her scent, and indulging in the feel of her curves against his palms. There were so many sensations. His weight on top of her, and the feeling of being so wonderfully pinned against the bed. Safe. Then there was his soft, unruly curls through her fingertips as she stroked his hair. Soft, days old stubble against her skin. His hands caressing, gripping. Her limbs, boneless and satiated. The slight feeling of soreness, the remembrance of what he felt like inside. The ache for more of him.

“Cullen?” she muttered, still stroking his hair. “Will you lay down for me?”

He peered at her, and she regretted asking him to move on his back for only a brief moment, as she mourned the loss for the feel of his body on top of her. Yet her hands caressed his side as she moved to blanket over him, and as she felt the thrill of it, having him at her mercy, she regretted no more.

“Lydia…” he breathed, flushed and rosy against the pillows. “I want…”

“What love? What do you want?”

“Touch me.”

“Where?”

“It doesn’t matter. Anywhere.”

In the middle of the night, buried in the soft curves of her body, he confessed to her how he once felt. He feared he would never trust another to touch him. He feared he would always have to hide his scars when he was with a woman. Didn’t think he could feel like this, ever. And when at last, he told her why, she wept.

He wiped the tears away. “It has no bearing on the now,” he promised. “What happened to me in Kinloch, it’s the past.” He punctuated it with caressing her face, smoothing her hair away.

“You went through that. Cullen.” She couldn’t say the word, violated. “Cullen. I—"

“Shhh,” he beckoned, soothing her. “It’s you and I now.”

The future. Their future. He whispered her name onto her skin after, continuing to kiss the tears away. “You see all of me, and you still love,” he said.

“How could I not?” she asked him, and she was the one that wiped away his tears.

Now the morning after they made love for the first time, and the morning after they spoke of their love. It was a new dawn, one where she could touch him, kiss all his scars, and he would accept. Accept, and what more. Demand it if he had to. In his life before, she wondered if he ever saw his body as anything more than a vessel to maim and injure others, or if anyone told him it was meant to be touched, and loved. She wondered if she could make him believe. She knew that she could spend a lifetime trying, and yet it wouldn’t be enough. Touching him, kissing his scars and following the paths they made across his skin would never be something she took for granted. She would never take him for granted.

Still, she was tentative in her touches. Careful, at least at first, looking to his eyes for permission and approval. He had all but demanded her, yes, but part of her still thought of the demon that asked questions that hurt him and took the form of the woman he had feelings for in Kinloch. It was why when they first became intimate he only sought to give, not expecting nor even really wanting something in return. Was it guilt that made him believe he shouldn’t expect anything from her? Or was it his love? It didn’t matter, she realized. Now he wanted. Now she could give. She would.

Every moan he made, ever little breathy sigh and heady murmur, she cherished as she traced scars, and flecked her tongue over burns long since healed. She found herself drawn to the most masculine parts of him, parts that were all the more enticing for how different they were compared to her own. His shoulders were a starry night of tiny freckles, gifted from the sun. She traced them with her tongue, made constellations before she gently nipped at his neck. Stroked his abdomen and chest as she kissed there.

“Lydia. Love…”

A low moan escaped his lips as she gently took his earlobe between her teeth. “I love it when you call me that,” she admitted.

“Tell me you love me.”

She had already planned on making up for all the times they wanted to say it, but never did. Yet hearing the earnest plea, knowing how such a powerful man could become undone by the utterance of three simple words, left her enraptured and spellbound.

“I love you,” she said. “I love you. I love you, and I want you.”

She punctuated it with a stroke of his cock, lightly increasing the pressure as she became compelled by the sounds he made. Commander of the Inquisition, up in his room, unafraid to let his lover know how her touches made him feel. Was it scandalous that she wouldn’t have minded if all Skyhold heard him shout her name? Likely. But Vivienne always said, that sometimes the most scandalous things were the ones that tasted the sweetest…

She stroked his cock, his hand making rhythmic circles on her back. She would have been content to finish him this way, feel his want and desire for her hot and sticky on her fingertips, but a surprised, yet delighted gasp came from her as he turned her over to her back. Cullen played with the wisps of hair that fell at her shoulders, before moving down her body, lightly squeezing her breasts. They kissed some, slowly and deeply, and one hand cradled her head, as the other descended down her body. Other men may have ignored the slight plumpness of her stomach. Cullen didn’t. He even moved down, left a kiss on old stretch marks, before moving back to her lips. And as they kissed, his fingertips found her clit.

“Promise me one thing,” he muttered. “No matter what happens. Us. Together.”

“So serious,” she said, gasping when he lightly increased the pressure of his fingertips.

He chuckled. “Lydia. I want you to promise. Please.”

“I promise.”

Her breathing hitched when a long digit slid inside. He too gasped at the feel of her walls clamping around him, and as he slid his finger in and out, she thought he must have remembered what it was like in the grove, when he slid inside her for the first time.

“Do you like this?”

“Yes. Don’t stop,” she commanded, kissing him, and running her tongue over the scar on his lip. “You make me feel…”

“Good?”

“Exquisite.”

He was happy, and proud. She was glad he felt proud, glad that his smile was so radiant as his fingers brought her over the edge. She spun from the tides, spun along the sea. He was in the sea with her, the kisses he gave more than sweet, even as his arousal was pressed against her thigh. She shifted a little, and when her back was pressed against his front, it became intrinsic, as if part of a ritual she had done a thousand times, to wrap her leg over him and guide him inside her. Strange how natural it was, though this all was still new to them. Maker, they were still new to each other in a way. They had touched each other before, yes, but they were new to this sort of intimacy and joining. She sighed at the feeling of him inside, the feeling of exquisite fullness coupled with his kisses and caresses. There were countless kisses. Just as many caresses, and still they weren’t enough.

“Maker…” he panted, raspy into her ear, grasping onto her hips. The movement paused, and before she could protest the loss of that gentle rock, his fingers were against that sensitive bundle of nerves, drawing another end from her body. She didn’t want him to wait until she recovered before he moved again, she didn’t even wait for the waves to dissipate before she squeezed his thigh, compelling him to continue. His own end came with a kiss, a kiss that they exchanged as she felt, once again, the warm spread of him inside her, and heard his sweet words of love, adoration, and thanks.

“You never have to thank me,” she said to him, stroking his hair.

He pressed his forehead to hers. “I want to. Lydia. It’s _you_ that loves me, and—”

“Cullen. Oh…” She felt the fluttering of her heart. “Kiss me.”

Summer. That was what his lips tasted like. Summer, and every season. The ones they had before this moment, the ones that they would have in the future.

Maker. There she was, thinking about their future again. The thought left her giddy, buzzing with titters as she thought of taking him to Ostwick, showing him the place where her mother once took her. Meeting his family. Everything.

“What are you smiling at?” he asked her, playfully. “The fact that we’re practically hiding away from everyone else, just to make love?”

Her laugh at the remark was joyous. There was the thought that yes, just as there was that thought that eventually they would have to get up. But the morning was still early. Still they could indulge in more moments together of just Cullen and Lydia, who believed in nothing else, save they were in love.

“I just remembered,” Lydia said after a moment, moving to her stomach, and resting her hand on her cheek, Cullen’s arm still wrapped around her middle. “Yesterday, when we were in the grove. You said there was something you wanted to tell me.”

“That’s right,” he remembered, eyes sparking with mounting excitement. “Lydia. It’s Bran.

“He and his wife had his baby, didn’t he?”

His grin was broad, proud as he nodded. “A boy. They named him Peter, after our father.”

She shared his smile, his happiness. “We have to have them over, or perhaps we should visit them.”

“Mia has been hounding me for a visit. Maker. I haven’t seen her in years, yet she still knows me so well. I didn’t tell her about us, but she found out.”

She giggled. “How?”

“I called you by your first name, instead of ‘your worship.’ I think she loves you already.”

“I think I love your family already too,” she admitted.

“Careful if you tell them that. They’ll hold you hostage.”

She thought of it, going to South Reach and being surrounded by Branson, Mia, and Rosalie, all of them with Cullen’s hair. She thought of being in the middle of a Rutherford chess match as they fed her traditional Ferelden lamb and pea stew. To be with a family, that loved and supported one another, with the man that she loved. It sounded like paradise.

“I do believe,” Cullen began, his digits moving up and down her back, “that you said yesterday there was something you wanted to tell me as well.”

“I told you already,” she replied, lowly and softly. “In fact, I’ve told you about a thousand times since we’ve begun our new…arrangement.” She drifted over to his arms. “I love you.”

He wrapped his arms around her. “I love you too.”

“Dammit…” she whined, burying her head in the crook of his neck. “I love hearing you say that.”

“So next time your angry at me…” Playfully, he squeezed her arse, making her titter “I’ll only need to say I love you then?”

“Cullen. You are such a stubborn ass. Next time I’m angry at you, you’ll have to throw me on the bed, and fuck me so hard, I forget my name.”

She felt delightfully naughty and warm at the thought, and his eyes were all mischief at the vulgarity and the thoughts it brought with it, before once again, he buried himself against her. She enjoyed the feel of his unruly and uncombed curls against her fingertips, and the softness of his breath against her breasts. She allowed the moment to burn in her mind, so she may remember it when she was far from him. How she wanted this morning to be their every morning.

“I feel like it was a lifetime ago,” he muttered after a while, peering at her.

“What was?” she asked, hazily.

“When we kissed on the battlements”

She was struck by how serious and severe he became as he took her hand, compared to how light and airy he was before. “Lydia,” he said, her hand still in his, “I’m sorry if I ever did anything wrong before.”

Her brows furrowed. “I don’t think you ever did anything wrong,”

“No. I—well.” He took a moment, processed his thoughts. “It was how it was with the lyrium, and the withdrawal. I suppose I had it in my mind that I had to suffer, and it was all mine to endure alone. I didn’t want to burden you or tell anyone about it.”

“You overthought,” she said. “You know, I remember, when you took me to the lake, and we were together that night. You keep giving. I didn’t know how to tell you I wanted to give too. And then when I was finally able to, it’s like you felt guilty after.”

“I don’t know why,” he said. “Perhaps it’s because I feel like I don’t deserve…”

“No. Don’t ever feel that way. You deserve to be happy. You deserve to be loved.”

“Even after…?”

“It’s you now, that matters. I see your past, yes. I see what we’ve been through. But I also see the future too. I know things will be difficult sometimes. Maker, this war isn’t even over yet. But Cullen…” Their eyes locked. She cradled his face in her hands. “We’re together. You can share anything with me. I believe in us.”

She was a little puzzled when he removed himself from her, and she became a little chilly, after loosing the warmth of his body. But before she could ask what he was doing, he was back on the bed, back in her arms.

“I was going to give this to you yesterday. I suppose I forgot when other things began to happen.” He blushed. “Here. You said you didn’t want to lose it, so I thought, well, Harrit said he could make sure it would never break or fall.”

She took it in her hands. It was Branson’s coin, now around a silver chain. She kissed him a thousand times in thanks, little pecks along his cheek, neck and lips, before asking him if he would put it around her neck. Lifting her hair up for him, he took the necklace and wrapped it around. He pressed his lips against the soft hollow at the base of her throat before setting the clasp around her neck, and sealing it the coin there with a kiss. Her hair fell around her shoulders after, and she sank onto the bed along with him. They kissed some more as early dawn became late morning. Likely people were looking for them now, wondering why they hadn’t begun their duties.

She didn’t care. What was even more wonderful, was the fact that neither did he.

“I was too afraid to tell you this before,” he whispered, “but I’m not afraid anymore. Because…I think it’s possible.”

“What love?”

“Well,” he began, grinning. “The week of the fete, I had a dream.”

“A nightmare?”

“No. Not a nightmare. It was a good dream.”

Their child, he told her. That was what he dreamed of. A daughter. She was surprised, but not displeased that he dreamed of a daughter and not a son. And she was happy, that he allowed himself to have that dream and indulge in it, even though they knew it was no guarantee. He told her his dream, and though the two couldn’t promise that someday that would be the reality, it was enough that they made that wish together.

They made other wishes together that morning. She breathed her wishes into his skin, and he engraved his desires in her body as he made love to her again. And neither the world nor the Inquisition fell apart as they welcomed their new dawn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have bad news for the two: the plot comes back in the next chapter.


	42. Cycles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> woo guys. Sorry for the extended wait on this chapter. I don't think this will happen again, but we are nearing the end, and maybe I'm just a little sad.

When Lydia and Cullen decided they were for good, and they would stand by each other always, time moved sweetly and slowly. They savored everything together. Each other most of all.

She may have been a virgin before Cullen, but she would never considered herself a prude in the days before. She thought of sex often, and she took pleasure in touching herself. She wasn’t shy to admit it to her lover, though his ears blushed when she fully admitted how often her hand helped her through her long periods of loneliness. She couldn’t imagine why, seeing as how the man didn’t blush when his head was buried between her legs. But he blushed just as hard, perhaps even harder when he admitted the pleasure he took from his own hand during a few long nights without her. The image of him thinking of her, stroking his cock became so arousing that she wanted to see one night. He obliged.

It was divine, to witness a flushed and rosy Cullen, grasping his length. She liked that image quite a lot, the one of him panting and moaning as he rubbed his cock. She liked it so much that she finished him off with her mouth. In turn she showed him how she took care of herself, wearing his mantle as she did. He moved her hand away to taste her before she brought her end, and she came on his face, thighs clamping around his head. Cullen blushed no more after that.

They liked exploring different ways to be together, but it was when he was seated inside of her that she craved above all. Indeed, they did quite a lot of experimenting with different rhythms and patterns those first few weeks when she wasn’t away from him. Together, they learned to dance.

It was not a waltz or a dance of that like that they learned, but rather a dance of naked bodies, entwinning limbs and wandering hands that grasped flesh and gently caressed. The pleasure he took at bringing her pleasure was insurmountable, the only thing able to match being Lydia’s joy at having her usual guarded and careful man give way for someone more carefree, playful, and willing to explore. He built walls after Kinloch. She was the one that witnessed them fall. In turn, he was the one that watched the kitten become a lioness. The lioness, unlike the kitten, wasn’t afraid anymore. She told him what she wanted, demanded it if she had to. She loved, so unashamedly. The lioness wasn’t afraid to be wonderfully his.

Time came when they had to part. Since the fete ended, the Inquisition had to follow Elaine’s lead to Sahrnia, in the Emprise du Leon. They made love primordially the night before she left, Lydia throwing her calf over his shoulder and Cullen grasping her hips as he thrust into her. Then they kissed and murmured reassurances and promises against their sweat sheened skin, and Lydia closed her eyes, felt his heart beat under her fingertips, and never once took for granted that feeling of being in love. She recalled his warmth in the bitter cold of the Emprise, the remembrance of his fevered skin underneath her lips mingled with her own fire keeping her warm. She savored the letters he wrote, and held them in her coat pocket, close to her heart. She had read it so many times since she received them, the words burned in her memory. _Lydia love, I write this in your garden, thinking of you. I always think about you, in my arms, running your fingers through my hair. Maker, I miss you on top of me, fully seated, fully joined. I burn for you. Beautiful, brave woman. I’m not going to stop telling you that when you’re in my arms again. I’m not going to stop telling you I love you._

The days wore on. A month passed. A month of planning and sorting out the new keep and assigning stations, helping the villagers in Sahrnia and taking back the Emprise. Dorian asked her if she was alright. She said she was fine. He didn’t believe her, said he knew she was sad. It was the truth, yes, but how could she say why? It was ridiculous why, when she knew where he was. Cullen was home. Home, and grateful for the letters they found in the quarry, the letters about Samson. She got a letter that morning, said he and the soldiers made plans already to find his weakness. He was grateful and elated they were one step closer to Samson. He was home and he loved her, and she would be in his arms again.

Yet knowing that if their lives were different, the unshakable and horrific knowledge that he may have been a red templar had he not brought himself on the path he was on now would not quell.

 

* * *

 

 

He was a man of few words, so Leliana and Josephine often said. Yet _I love you_ and _I missed you_ , along with gentle kisses was enough when Lydia arrived home.

He didn’t know what to expect in this reunion, perhaps a rain of kisses and caressing hands behind the stable with clothes and buckles tumbling off in their want for each other. What happened instead was merely a long embrace. Or rather, it was Lydia who held on, burying her head in the fur of his mantle. He took off his gloves before he came down to meet her in the stables, as he usually did. He wanted to feel her skin, feel her fire against his ungloved palms, and run his digits through her soft hair. It was unruly from her riding, and wild. Maker he could spend hours combing through her hair. She was perfect. This was perfect. It was all they needed now.

Time passed, the others left them alone. It was nearing evening and he figured she must have been hungry. She always was when returning home from a mission. But he asked and she replied that she wasn’t. More than anything, that was concerning. She never turned down food. He was about to ask, but she interrupted him with a slow and lingering kiss, and a whisper. Take me to my room.

A homecoming was what she wanted. A homecoming he gave, tenderly peeling off her clothes as she peeled off his. Her skin underneath him, he littered her body with his mouth and made marks that only he would ever see, laving over them with his tongue after. “Slow Cullen,” she pleaded as he positioned himself. “Slow.”

Not feeling her in a month, not being with her was maddening, frustrating and lonely. Maker, he was so lonely all those years before in Kirkwall. That was how he knew he was in love with Lydia. She let him know how lonely he had been. He thought he was fine not having her for that month, but he worried every day. If something happened to her, if a red templar had struck her down…

“I’m here,” she said to him, and he didn’t know if she was trying to convince him, or herself.

Neither one pulled their gazes away as inside he slid, in and out. Keeping his gaze on her, it was the only way he could be slow. The coin shimmered between her breasts, her hair fanned against the pillows. One of her hands found his while the other sank between her folds. She touched herself and he told her to come. He wanted to hear her. He could feel his own end, close. Before she could feel the tides of her orgasm he pushed her hand away, brought her to end with his fingers. Beautifully she came, arched against the pillows. Mesmerized, he followed her into the little death, sinking into her body and allowing himself to be wrapped in her arms. She told him to stay. He obeyed.

Her eyelashes were like butterfly wings against his shoulder. His shoulder was damp. She had been crying, and his heart fell. She should not be crying, not now.

“Lydia. Love,” he said, cradling her head, stroking her hair. “Why are you crying? Please don’t cry. We’re together now.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, wiping her tears away. “I wanted this to be happy. But I was so scared, all the time in Sahrnia. I couldn’t stop the nightmares.”

Nightmares. He knew she had them, though not as often as he did. He was glad. He would take them all if he could, though he knew he couldn’t. “This is real,” he promised her.

She closed her eyes. “When I fall asleep, I don’t want to dream about you, as a—”

“No. That won’t ever happen.”

Watery blue eyes beseeched him. “Do you promise?”

“I promise. I’m not going to leave you.”

He continued to promise her with fervent pleas and ardent kisses. Fiercely, she answered. Kissing and words eventually turned into touching and caressing. Real. They were real, and while they were together, they should only talk of happy things. So much of their lives were built around duty, worry, and sorrow. They were together because being together made them happy, and they would be happy when they were together. He was right, Lydia said, succumbing to the forgetfulness and wonder being with him always gave her. They should be happy. They were happy. No one could have said otherwise as they made love again, Cullen on his back while she was on top of him. She sank onto his chest as he came, peppering every part of his face her lips could reach. He no longer felt tears, but rather her grin mingled with her warm breath.

“I can’t be sad when we’re together,” she said. “I won’t be.”

Selfishly, he made that moment last. He had to. He had too, because there were so few moments of happiness they had. There was so much suffering he couldn’t keep her from, but if he could let her know that he was there, and he would never succumb, he would do everything he possibly could to make sure she would never cry for would could have been again.

 

* * *

 

 

Samson burned in his mind since he resurfaced at Haven. With him burned old memories of Kirkwall and Meredith. Remembering wasn’t new to him, but the passage of time and its vantage point was. That better fueled the burn to see Samson brought to justice.

He wanted it for so long, yet when Rylen came to him, told him they had found where Samson was, there was no burn. There was relief, yes, but there was also the notion, and the need. He had to go with Lydia to the Shrine of Dumat. That was what burned.

“Samson still has that armor,” she said when she came to him in his office and he told her the news.

“All the more reason for me to go. I would…sleep better, if I knew I was at your side.”

She put her hands on her hips. “Cullen Stanton Rutherford. I can take care of myself.”

He chuckled. He knew that, told her so, but before he could say anything else, she drifted over and kissed him on the cheek.

“At least now I can tell Cassandra I actually have an excuse to pack my satin nightgown with me,” she said proudly, snuggling closer to him.

“Who says you’ll need one at all?”

Giggling, they shared an embrace, before she pressed her lips to his ear. “I won’t be lonely,” she said, her fingers running through the fur of his mantle. “We can be together, under the stars. We’ll find him together. We can put an end to this.”

She didn’t delay the journey. They were off the next day. Cullen worried the journey would be a difficult one, but after the march to and back from Adamant fortress, Cullen was left inclined to believe that all long journeys would be like that one, with the ominous forbearing in the pit of his stomach growing until his entire body seized with anxiety and worry. But though there was that ominous feeling as party traveled together, every night, there was also Lydia. She quelled his foreboding worry with her touch kiss. Then in the morning in their tent when they woke naked and entangled, she reminded him they would find him, and it would all end. He believed his lover when she told him.

Then, they arrived. There was only ruin.

Laden with guilt, Cullen could only nod when Lydia suggested they give Maddox a proper funeral. He went through the rest of the motions, only listening halfway when someone, was it Varric? Said that perhaps Dagna could use the tools they found to unmake Samson’s armor. He was numb, lightheaded. Tired. Lydia intertwined their hands, led him away from the Shrine, back to the camp. It was evening now, he noticed. The sun had tinted the camp a subtle orange glow. Lydia was so unabashed in kissing his cheek, showing her affection for him in front of the others. Had she been like that the entire journey? He didn’t know and couldn’t remember. Searing pain again, sharp in his forehead as Cassandra and Varric prattled on, while Dorian and Lydia were laughing about something or other.

“Cullen? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re squeezing my hand, and you’re rubbing at your temples. Is it a migraine?”

“I’m fine.”

“Do you know how much I hate it when you say you’re fine? I never think you’re telling the truth, and—”

“Really Lydia. I am,” he said, taking his hand away, and being much too cruel in the process, with both his gesture and his words. Maker. Andraste. He knew it immediately. He didn’t mean to be. Really. He did not mean to be. He would never hurt her. And she knew that, said so as he gave her a litany of apologies, taking her hand and leaving small, apologetic kisses to her skin.

Her gloved hand swept over his cheek. He wanted to shout. He wanted to run. He wanted to be by himself but he didn’t want to be alone. He wanted to stop it—the hum. It was different than he had heard it before. Much too different.

“I know what it is,” Lydia said. “If you need something Cullen…”

“We didn’t find him,” he said as Lydia’s words trailed off. “He knew we were coming, and he destroyed everything. I’m not angry because of that.”

“Something's not right.”

He sighed. “Let me be alone, all right? I need to be alone.”

He wasn’t sure where he was going, but he wanted to be anywhere but where he was. Somewhere where there was no hum or call. Anywhere but where he was.

 

* * *

 

 

“Lyrium,” Dorian muttered to Lydia as she stood by the camp, every part of her screaming that she should go after Cullen. “It’s the red lyrium.”

“He shouldn’t have been in there,” Lydia said.

Dorian shook his head. “He wanted to find him. Can’t blame him, can we?”

“But look what happened. If I would have known this would happen, I wouldn’t have brought him here. I would have kept him home.”

Dorian sighed. “I was there with you in Sahrnia Lydia. I saw what happened. Every time we took down one of them, it was like you saw Cullen.”

It was obvious. Of course it was. Lydia was an open book. And Dorian was like her brother, of course he would have known without her saying anything. Yet that night she spent with Cullen, wrapped in his arms after she returned home, she wanted it to end that night, and for them to move on from that.

I would sleep better if I knew I was by your side.

“I wish you wouldn’t have told him the full extent,” Lydia admitted.

“I didn’t have to. He knows you so well. He knew before I said anything.”

He wanted to protect and assure her, and look what happened in the process. The vicious cycle wheeled back again, the cycle with the nightmares, the migraines. It would always happen. The healers told him there would always be good days and bad days. Yet they knew how to avoid bad days, and instead they had walked right into it. The least she could do now was be there for him, give him a potion. Help him.

She tried to retrace his footsteps into the woods, where he had gone to wander. The area near the shrine was a beautiful woodland, and Cassandra said there was even a lake in the distance that the locals liked to swim in during the warmer months. When they arrived in the area Cullen said it reminded him of home. There was a forest near Honnleath, and he regaled how he and his childhood friend Kate used to wander when they were children, along with Mia, Bran and Rose. He laughed at the time he regaled his childhood adventures, sitting atop his horse Buttercup while Lydia steered Pepper. He said he and his siblings could lose themselves in the woods. His adult self was no different it seemed. Lydia couldn’t find him.

“Cullen?” Lydia called. “Cullen where are you?”

No answer. Her heart was racing. Unusually too, as Maker knew she had gone on much more involved treks before this one. Maybe she was much more concerned about Cullen than she thought. She shouldn’t have been—he was more than capable of taking care of himself.

“Cullen?” she called again.

She heard a sharp snap, the sound of a boot breaking a twig on the ground. It must have been him. She followed the source, calling his name again. Why wasn’t he answering her?

“Cullen please come back. You’ll be fine. We’ll work through this like we always do. I know what happened, it’s the lyrium. You shouldn’t have been around it. Are you alright? Cullen? Wait, what the—”

There was only a moment between. One moment between where she could have done so many other things than what she did. She could have spun around, flung fire at her assailant and demand answers. She could have bolted with the fade step. But the presence, it was too familiar for that. Familiar, but there was something about it that made her hair stand on end. It took the arm around her mouth, preventing her screams that let her know she should not have lingered.

It was futile, she was in too much shock, and her assailant needn’t had bothered, even if the other hand, large and calloused as it was deftly managed to grab both her wrists with little effort. Did they know she was a mage? Or did they grab in just the right way that prevented her from using her magic? She didn’t know. All she knew was the hot breath in her ear, the strong frame behind her, and the feeling of being pushed.

They were heading toward the edge of the forest. He was taking her to the outskirts of the woodlands, to the edge of lake. Why was he doing that? Why was…?

“I’d hoped I’d see you again, kitten.”

His gripe loosened. She pulled away. She did not run. She did not do anything. She had nothing to give.

Asher had already taken so much before. She wouldn’t give, not anymore.

“Inquisitor. Herald of Andraste,” he said. “Kitten. It’s me.”

It’s me, he said. So easily too, as if there never was a past. Yet there always was a past.

She could have run. She didn’t run. She was rooted to the spot. How could he still have such a hold on her, and know it too? She knew he knew as well, as he let go of her. Yet he didn’t let go until he pulled her into his frame, forcing their eyes to lock. His iris was lined with red.

“Lydia,” he muttered.

“Asher,” she said. “You—”

His lips curled deviously. “Good to see you again.”

He wouldn’t stop smiling, and Lydia knew why. Just as he had all those years ago in the library, when he forced their first kiss, he had won.

Again.

Unmoving, Lydia listened. Unmoving, Lydia waited to hear him speak.


	43. Irredeemable

If Lydia had any inkling of anything sensible, she would have run. She knew that. Yet as much as she could inwardly continue to scold herself for not running when she had the chance, the past kept her rooted to the earth.

All those times she harped on Cullen for living in the past when Elaine resurfaced, she didn’t truly know or understand. She thought it so easy for him to forget and be done with it. It was easy enough for her to forget Asher when Elaine mentioned him. But Maker, if she knew then, she wouldn’t have acted like she did. Because when the past came back, not as a ghost, but really, really came back, it clutched your psyche and refused to let go. It would drown you, if you let it. If she didn’t come up for air, she would drown.

She wasn’t coming up for air.

“I’ve been waiting for ages,” Asher said, utterly flippant as he crossed his arms. The way he was acting, it was like they were back in the Circle and he was waiting for her to sneak away for a moment alone with him. “But you just had to take your sweet time in the Shrine, didn’t you?” he went on, as casually and nonchalantly as he would tell her the day was long. “If you would have snuck away sooner I could have told you Samson left. Could have saved so much time. And really Lydia? You didn’t even bring a staff? I’m disappointed in you.”

Another thing to chide herself for. Then again, he was one to talk. He wasn’t wearing any armor, though he did have a sword strapped to his hip, and a shield on his back. Either way she must have made a displeased and disgruntled face at herself, for Asher laughed and laughed. That, more than anything, was what disturbed her. And it was the sound of it too—it should have been innocuous. But it was unhinged. He, was unhinged.

More than a year passed since the conclave, and since she last saw him. Back then he was a little rough. He had been traveling, and his brown hair was unruly and eyes tired. Though he was still the Asher she remembered from the Circle, proud and perhaps a little too arrogant for his own good. Yet this Asher?

It was Asher, unmistakably so, but an Asher that lost touch with his old self. Years ago when they first began their illicit time together he said he didn’t like the feeling of a beard on his face, and a shaved face was all the better to kiss her with anyway. In the time they had been apart he had grown a beard, dark and shaggy. His hair was unruly too. Any longer he could tie it up in one of those buns Lydia had seen a lot of men wear. His face was gaunter, his skin sallow and grey. His eyes were the worst of all. The brown color, dark as mud after a rainstorm probably never had the warmth Lydia once saw, she just wanted to see them that way back then when her hazy vision didn’t allow her to see things for how they really were. Back then she forged glasses born from a want to belong and love. As they lay shattered, she saw Asher for how he really was.

His eyes were lined with an angry crimson. His form was broken and hunched from the red. It was breaking him down. That was when she saw it, though she wished to the Maker she didn’t. She saw how the tattered, maroon tunic he wore barely managed to cover the red on his shoulder. And when he moved, just so, she saw how the setting sun made the crystals glint. He had poison in his veins, and his body would break down because of it. She saw in his eyes how he would take her down with him if she let him.

“There’s more too,” he said, noticing how she stared. “I won’t show you that.”

She wobbled when the ground becoming shaky and uneven. He broke the distance between them, trying to steady her. She didn’t want his touch. Her hands became a barrier that separated him from coming in closer as she backed away. Yet no matter how far she tried to retreat, he followed. He pleaded. He begged her things she couldn’t fully comprehend. He called her kitten again.

It was what made her snap.

“Asher, no!” she spat, closer to the water’s edge now. “No. I’m not your kitten.”

“Oh come now,” he chided. “You liked it before.”

“No,” she admitted. “No Asher. I never liked cats. I always hated that name.” Cullen called her dearest, darling, love. He meant it. Kitten. It was abhorrent. It was his way Asher called her his trophy and prize. His side thing. Not love.

He blinked. He saw Lydia but he didn’t see the meek little mage he forced a kiss on. “What changed?” he asked, half helpless, half stupefied.

“What changed is I thought you were dead!” she exclaimed.

He erupted in another angry and bitter laugh. “You should have known I wouldn’t go into the conclave. Come now. You know I said it wouldn’t work.”

“Does it matter, considering what happened?”

His eyes hardened. “No, I suppose it didn’t matter, did it? Look at everything that happened to me.”

Therinfal. He went to Therinfal, where Samson went. He took the red lyrium, and somewhere along the way, he met Elaine. Somewhere along the way Rylen and his men intercepted them. Asher got away, Elaine didn’t. Then Elaine told Lydia he was still alive, if only just.

She moved on. She came to terms with the fact that she would lose him again. But was it really a loss, if he allowed himself to become what he became? She decided it wasn’t. Was it cruel? She didn’t so at the time, and it happened so quickly it didn’t even register that was what she had done.

Muddy eyes, burning not like fire, but ice, stared into hers. Andraste, it was cruel of her.

“Help me Lydia.”

He shot an arrow and it pierced her. “Help?” she demanded, exasperated and heaving. “Help?”

“There must be a way to—”

“No, you listen to me!” She broke the distance she created between them, grabbed a hold of his shirt. She didn’t want to look into his eyes, didn’t want to see that ring of red glisten and glow, but she looked anyway. “Asher,” she said. “You cannot come to me and beg for help.”

“I left Samson,” he said, attempting to plead to her, letting her hold onto him, or perhaps not having the will to pull her off. “The Elder One,” he continued, “This, his plans and what Samson spoke of. It didn’t matter to me. I was forced. At Therinfal it was take the lyrium and follow, or death.”

Was that true? She couldn’t know. Everyone who knew were mad or dead. “Haven,” she said. “Where you there?”

He didn’t speak. She gripped his tunic harder. “Were you there?” she demanded.

“Yes, and no. Samson didn’t send me or a few others below to the gates. But you have to understand, I didn’t believe in him. I didn’t—”

“You were with him Asher! Elaine said it. You were his little helper. Don’t you dare tell me you didn’t believe in him!”

“I had a choice Lydia. I could fall into obscurity and die on the field in the Graves somewhere, or I could be by his side and stay alive longer.”

“You will die anyway.”

“You don’t know,” he said. “None of us do. Samson is still alive. Maybe at the end of this I will still be standing too.”

Disgust churned her gut. “I don’t care what you say. You had to have believed, at least a little.”

“No. Elaine did. So I did.”

She let go of him. Fingers wove through her hair. She pulled, so hard her scalp ached. Into the palms of her hand, she screamed. Why was she screaming? She was no scorned lover. What did it matter that perhaps he fell a little for Elaine?

Old Lydia was in mourning, old Lydia who needed him. New Lydia didn’t care, because new Lydia didn’t need him. But where was new Lydia? Asher must have buried her, because it never mattered what Asher did. He always brought out the Lydia he wanted.

“I didn’t think I would ever have you again,” Asher said, as if trying to comfort her. “What did it matter anyway? She cried out the name Cullen all the time.”

What could she say to that? Maker, he didn’t know about her and Cullen, did he? He couldn’t. They didn’t kiss nor hold each other at the Shrine of Dumat. He didn’t know…couldn’t know…

“I didn’t want this,” he said, neither angry nor sad, but done. Asher, was irrevocably done.

Lydia remained unmoved. “But you made a choice to follow Samson,” she stated. “You didn’t have to.”

“Would you have preferred to die?”

The fire within did not cool. “Yes. I would have chosen to die.”

“You wouldn’t have. You’ve survived this far.”

“Luck and skill have kept me alive.”

He shook his head. “Part luck, part your own will. It would have been easy to die. You are here. You would never choose to die. Elaine—” All too abruptly he lost his words. Then, he glanced at her, and that glance said nothing and everything. “Elaine,” he said again began, speaking her name as he would a prayer, “she had no will, towards the end. I know. She chose to die.”

The least she could do was tell him her death was peaceful.

“I’m going to die too, aren’t I?”

He looked up at the sky, as if the sky would give him the answers that he needed. “Asher….” she said, “I—”

“It’s not because I want to kitten.”

He looked again at her. Anymore and she would burst.“Don’t call me kitten,” she said again, her heart not really in it.

“Why are you sad all of a sudden? You suddenly wish me well?”

“Because…because…”

“Because what?”

Because it was like a poison, the slow, creeping realization. If she had gone to Therinfal, if she hadn’t gone to Alexius…

“Lydia, what’s going on? Why are you here? Who…?”

“Cullen!”

“Cullen?”

Asher repeated the name, knowing him but not fully knowing, and certainly not expecting to run into him now. Cullen’s eyes met his across the way. Asher, and Cullen. Lydia didn’t know if Cullen knew, not at first anyway, but for Asher, the pieces of the puzzle came together as Cullen dashed toward Lydia. The full picture formed when he took her hand, shielded her close to his body. It happened so fast, and it happened so slow that Asher’s mouth dropped, and he was exclaiming that he suspected it, that they were together, but he shrugged it off, because he didn’t think Lydia would have the irony needed to want to be with another templar after she was done with him…

That was when Cullen knew.

Cullen drew his sword. Lydia shrieked his name, imploring him to stop as Asher too placed his hand on his blade's hilt. She chanted a litany of stop, no, put her hands on Cullen and tried to reel him back in, reel them both away from where they were, so they could just be Cullen and Lydia again, happy because they were together, and they couldn’t be unhappy when they were together. Yet she touched him and he stiffened, raising his blade higher. If Lydia was in a scene with Asher earlier, Cullen ripped her from the stage and replaced her. Her scene with him was over, it was Cullen’s power play now, a play that sought revenge, for whatever Asher’s part in the red templar army was. For even associating with Samson. For what he did to Lydia in the Circle.

“I don’t want to fight,” Asher said, calmly and carefully. “I want—”

“Draw.”

The persona of the battered, hapless fool broke to someone both amused and puzzled. “A duel?” he asked, half not believing “You want to duel? Like we’re some fucking knight at a tourney?”

“You’re not a knight,” Cullen spat.

“Neither or you.”

“But I have more honor than you.”

Asher, always full of a thousand retorts and witty one liners, had no response. Instead he did what he always used to do, change the subject and divert. “I said it to Lydia,” he said. “I want help.”

“You will get no help.” Cullen hissed.

Asher drew his sword, grabbed his shield. “Then duel.”

It took a beat before it began. In that beat, Cullen looked at her. “Don’t get involved,” he said. “Lydia. Do not get involved.”

“No...Cullen!”

She heard the order, but fire erupted from her palm anyway even before Asher could lunge. She rose her hands in the air as the loud clanking of swords filled the space. Cullen blocked, pushing with his arms and his whole body, so hard Asher tripped backwards. Yet he was quick and recovered quickly as Lydia cried out, her fire still brimming. She thought or it, brief and fleeting before reconsidering. But she dared not aim, not because of an order, but knowing full well she would never forgive herself if she hit the man she loved. And part of her too, knew, she did not want to harm the man she thought she once loved. A better mage could perhaps do something, anything, because a better mage would be able to clear their mind. Lydia couldn’t clear her mind. Not when her love and once, maybe love were defending an honor that was already gone.

The red templar and the ex templar were both at disadvantages. Asher was armor-less while Cullen had no shield. Cullen was protected but perhaps that made his movements more cumbersome, and though Asher had no protection, he was far more agile. Like lightning he moved, continuously striking, trying, but Cullen knew every movement before Asher could make them. He had to know what the enemy would do. Every day he taught his men what to expect. Of course he would know, of course he would know how to kill. And Lydia was sure, if it came down to it, Cullen would kill if he had to. He had before.

Cullen slammed his sword into Asher’s shield. Energies boiled and burst between them as back and forth they pushed and pulled. The duel turned to a game of pure strength, a strength of will and endurance of who could break first.

Sweat sheened on their foreheads. “I heard about you, Knight Captain,” Asher spat. “Mages cannot—”

“Shut up,” Cullen growled.

Asher intended it to make him waver, it ignited his fury instead. “You think I’m the enemy.”

Harder Cullen pushed. “You are.”

“No. You are. You still feel like we’re worth saving. You believe everything the chantry said. You—”

Cullen roared. Asher fell into the earth. He thought he was winning, that his words would break him. It did, just not in the way he expected. Cullen kicked Asher’s shield away, so hard Asher yelped, dropping his sword and rubbing his hand. His face was twisted in pain. Cullen too dropped his blade, pulling Asher up from the ground. Lydia never saw such anger, such hate before. She knew it was there, yes, because anger, love, violence, passion, sorrow all existed in everyone. Yet Cullen kept his hate shielded from her, never told her how much of his soul despised Asher and the rest of the red templars. He would never tell her, she knew, if she did not see. Who would ever tell the one they loved how much they could hate?

“No!” Lydia shouted, as swiftly, Cullen lifted his knee to Asher’s gut. He let go of him, dropped him and Asher toppled over to his knees, his hands on the ground. He breathed too hard and Cullen breathed too hard too, blankly staring at what he had done, as if he could not comprehend. Damn what he said, so help her, she was prepared to run toward him, stop him before he could strike again, but before she could cross that threshold, Cullen looked at her. He looked at his lover and saw she was disappointed.

He stumbled backward, Asher still on the ground. He heaved and Cullen heaved. An age passed and Lydia could not bear it, she used her whole being to feel that familiar tingling of frost. It was not her, fire was her, but she was not her in those moment, and the wall of ice emerged easily enough. She watched it expand and grow, preventing the men from lunging at each other again. What they were trying to prove, she didn’t care. She wanted to see no more.

The wall could be broken, Lydia realized. Either one of them too could walk around it. But it served it's purpose. They wanted no more.

Asher rose, grabbing his sword and his shield. One last look at Lydia’s broken, weary form, and he ran. She did not watch him run, but she felt her heart stumble and quake before she rushed to Cullen and held him back as Asher ran. There was no need, Cullen stayed in her arms.

The battle was over, and though Cullen didn't run, he wasn’t done. He cursed. He was inconsolable. Asher just wanted help, Lydia insisted, but Cullen would not hear it. He was a red templar, he said. He was irredeemable. But even as he said it, Cullen knew that there were some who thought he too irredeemable.

She held his face in her hands. She told him it was all right, damn well knowing she always hated it when he said it. It wasn’t all right, he said. Asher would run to Samson, and where would they be then? They had to go back to Skyhold, they had to go to the Arbor Wilds. Time was running out.

“Please look at me,” she begged of him. “Cullen, dearest, love…it’s the lyrium. It’s the red lyrium. You shouldn’t have been around it. It’s your withdrawal. This isn’t you now, it’s—"

“Every time something like this happens, you’re going to blame the lyrium, aren’t you?”

The night became heavy with everything she did not say.


	44. Symbols

“Lydia.”

She stirred. “Cullen.”

They were in the tent somewhere close to Skyhold, Cullen sitting as Lydia lay sprawled next to him, halfway to sleep. As she stirred, Cullen thought of it—pulling her into his frame and holding her close.

He didn’t dare. Since the incident, they drifted to two separate islands, with the one thing he wondered but did not want to ask hanging in the air.

Yet he couldn’t allow it anymore. He had to know the truth. He had to know, even if it horrified him, sickened him.

“You have to tell me honestly. I want to know. When Asher…” he hated saying his name. “When what happened happened with him, did I hurt you at all?”

She paused, before she made her admittance. “It hurt me a little, yes,” she muttered. “Because I wondered if you did not trust me, or think I could save myself.”

It wasn’t that, not at all. He would have told her, yet he had another thing to ask, something much more concerning.

“Did I frighten you?”

There was a long and heavy pause. He knew it then. Even when she said, “No Cullen you did not frighten me,” he knew he did. She would have answered swiftly if she truly was not frightened.

The thought of frightening her. Maker, it sickened him, completely and utterly. How would he ever make it up? “Lydia—”

“Cullen I know what you’re capable of,” she said, exasperated and weary, bringing her hands to her eyes, covering them from him. “I saw it in Haven. As you took me to the chantry, I remember thinking that the people you cut down, they could have been people you knew. You did it anyway, to save us.”

He took a beat. “It was them or us,” he said simply.

“And you thought it was Asher or you then, I understand,” she muttered. “Or maybe you thought you were a knight, defending my honor. Saving me from harm. I don’t know.”

Did childhood stories of brave and gallant knights stick with him so much as a boy, that in his adulthood he retained that inherent desire to help and protect? Part of it must have. He carried that childhood wish to be a knight to his early teens, so much so he idolized Ser Rylance, and the other templars stationed in Honnleath. “We protect,” Ser Rylance said. “Above all, that is what a templar stands for.”

Once, Cullen asked them why. "If we don’t do it, who else will?" Ser Rylance told him. "Someone must always choose to defend."

“I can help myself,” Lydia said. “I can save myself.”

“I know,” he replied, though he didn’t remember it at the time, and he didn’t know if it was because of the red lyrium or the withdrawal.

Maker. The lyrium, always it was the lyrium. He hated it, how it was always a concern. _Oh, Commander Cullen needs to be looked out for,_ he knew they all said. _Be careful with him, make sure he’s sleeping and taking his herbs and tonics._ He’s so brave for quitting _,_ the generous ones said while the unscrupulous ones thought he was fool. But he wasn’t brave. If he didn’t do it and succeed, who else would?

What was worse, the fact that what happened might have been because of the lyrium, or because it was his own damn self?

“Cullen, please understand that…”

“No Lydia,” he stated flatly. He didn’t want sympathy. He didn’t need sympathy, not anymore. “It was not the lyrium. It was all me. What I do is separate from my…” No. he would not say it. Not condition, nor withdrawal, when he was simply Cullen. He made mistakes, he didn’t do things as he should. His battle with the lyrium wasn’t all he was.

“I am more than the lyrium,” he said.

“I know that.”

“Do you?”

“I do."

Boiling anger, anger at himself was toppling over, and anymore he would burst. He knew he should reel in, but he couldn’t. Didn’t want to. “What happened, that day, that day after the fete?” he demanded. “Poor Cullen. Look what he did. Look at what he’s going through.” He knew it must have been what she thought. Elaine even said it. “I can save him,” Cullen continued, everything resurging. “That’s probably what you thought. And then when you went to Sahrnia….” He clenched his fist. “Did you think me so weak that I would allow myself to—”

“No!” she shouted, rising suddenly, matching his tone. “No. That’s never what I thought. How dare you think that. You’re not weak. You’re one of the strongest people I know. It was you that day. You got up, saved yourself. And that’s why I chose you. I want to be with you because I don’t want to live through a life without you. I did not save you. I saw your broken pieces, and—”

“Broken?” he asked, his words bitter. “You say you did not save me. But what did you see me as? Broken pieces that needed to reassembled.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“You said it.”

“It was wrong, all right? It was a poor choice of words.”

She said it. Without a moment’s hesitation. Maybe she meant it.

“What am I to you, Cullen?”

The tables turned. Fire magic turned to ice and he could not find an answer before she spoke again, shaking her head and avoiding his gaze. “You say you love me,” she said, “But why? What am I to you?”

“You’re Lydia,” he stated.

“Am I just Lydia though? You know what they say? They say it’s strange you love me in spite of being a mage. But do you love me because I’m a mage, and loving me is your redemption?”

“What have I done that’s made you think that?” he asked. “My past,” he said, too tired, exasperated and too everything to think about that now. “My past has no bearing on the now.”

“I think so, I hope so…”

“Oh Lydia, how can I make you understand that I love you because you’re you?”

"Even if we're fighting now?" 

"Yes, dammit! Even if we're fighting!"

He hoped when he started the conversation they wouldn’t be islands anymore. Instead they spread to the furthest part of the sea. And there was no boat, no nothing to bring them back together.

“Cullen…I—I do know. You love me. I know.”

“Do you?”

She took his hand. “Yes. Yes." 

"Do you believe in me?" 

"Yes. I believe. I always have." 

He cupped her face in his hands. They kissed and when they parted, they had cooled. Still, they were islands.

 

* * *

 

 

Cullen told Leliana about the incident. He had to. He had no desire to hide things from the Inquisition’s spymaster, and part of him knew he wanted her advice, even if she told him exactly what he already knew.

She did. She gave no comment of the event, and she was so practiced in not revealing her emotions that Cullen didn’t know what she thought. She merely said that they had to move quickly, and upon her advice the process of planning the arrival to the Arbor Wilds and establishing footholds expediated. Yet beyond Leliana, no one save the primary players knew of the encounter by the bank of the lake. He told no one how he hoped this winter that ruined their summer would end.

Unless it didn't. Unless they stayed in this winter of their love, this torture where neither one wanted to say or admit something was wrong when it so clearly was. Or, perhaps, it wasn’t that they didn’t admit something was wrong, it was they didn’t know how to make it better and repair. Cullen stood at a cliff’s edge, wanting to fall but too afraid. That was the thing too, he didn’t know what precisely he was afraid of. It wasn’t not admitting he was wrong, surely, he could admit wrongdoing in his life. In those early days when Kirkwall lay in ruins, he admitted his wrongdoing every day. Sometimes he still did. It was not that. He regretted what he did by the bank of the lake, he told her so the day they arrived back at Skyhold. “I know,” she said. “I know you won’t do it again.”

That seemed to be all they could say as the days bled together. As Dagna worked with Maddox’s tools to find a way to unmake Samson’s armor, Lydia trained incessantly. He saw her in the courtyard with Vivienne and Solas, using her mark in that strange fade magic Solas taught her, hailing a rain of fire. He watched her once step back to catch her breath. Vivienne handed her a vial of lyrium. She turned it down.

Likely they would barely have time to be together had what happened not happen. Sunrise to sunset he spent it with the troops, planning skirmishes and choke points in the Wilds. And when he wasn’t doing that he trained. _Your body is machine and vessel_ , Meredith used to say. He had forgotten what she said, but he remembered as he trained long into the night. He remembered. It made him wonder if he was that same not quite boy but not yet man that believed what she told him. He didn’t seek Lydia’s company. She didn’t seek his.

They lived in winter, pretending it was summer and avoiding what needed to be spoken of. He didn’t know what would happen if it didn’t get better. Lydia, she spoke to him in the early days of their togetherness about her life, and how she saw it as a tapestry. Her life was a tapestry and each event and person wove and became a thread in the grand design. If he saw his life the same way, he would have seen the sunlit, golden threads of his childhood, and the red as blood threads mixed with the steel colored lyrium threads of his time with the templars. The tapestry led to the Inquisition, to her, and her cool, sea blue threads. Yet if they never found a way to leave their winter, would her thread be removed? It became so intricate to his tapestry, so woven in, that to remove the thread and to remove Lydia would unravel the whole design. He indulged in fantasies of a life after, a life with her. He didn’t think he could imagine a whole new tapestry, with no threads of her.

He came to her the day before she left for the Arbor Wilds.

She called him in, and as she sat at her vanity combing her long brown hair, he recalled a time when it was clipped to her shoulders. She strutted into his office the day after, strutting in as only his Inquisitor and woman he wanted to know. They were two islands, back then. So much changed since, yet they had become islands again.

He finished training that day, his body tired and weary. He took off his armor and came to her in nothing but simple tunic, the same one he generally wore underneath his armor, and through the mirror he could see how the tunic no longer clung to his form. He had grown thinner, a little more gaunt and his arms more sinewy from constant practice. Soon it would be over, he told himself, and he would walk into more uncertainty. Lydia set her comb down, gazing at him through the mirror. She smiled, and he knew it to be her real smile. She gave that same starry smile sometimes after kisses, when his hand would still cradle her face. They were so different in so many ways. Their skin color was different. He was the son of a farmer when she was a noble. They grew up in different cultures. She was a mage and he was once a templar. So different, or at least, that’s what they said. It was never what he thought. He didn’t think they were so different, when they were together. Until Asher.

“I’ve missed you.”

She said that. It was good to hear, better when he put his hand on her shoulder, and she put her hand on his. She shifted, and the silver coin of Andraste shimmered against her collar.

“We’re never really alone though, are we?” he asked.

She sighed as he leaned down, wrapping his arms around her and nestling his chin against the crook of her neck. She leaned against him, let him support her, and for a moment they forgot they were separate islands.

“I have it,” she muttered after a while. “I have the rune that Dagna made.”

“If you come across him…”

“I know what I have to do.”

He didn’t ask about Asher. He wouldn’t. Instead he told her he wished she could arrive to the Wilds with him and the rest of the troops.

“I know,” she replied. “But Josephine and Leliana say the chevaliers and Ambassador Briala’s agents have already arrived. The Empress is due to arrive soon as well. All three of us must be there to meet them. Our soldiers…I’m just a figurehead to them. They report to you. They put their trust in you.”

She rose from her vanity, her long cobalt blue nightgown shimmering as she walked to her bed. He didn’t follow. He sat down on the chair as she moved to lay down, eyes looking at him but perhaps not seeing. There they were again, avoiding. Avoiding what ailed them, and pretending it was summer instead of winter.

He could take it no more. “Lydia—”

“I know.”

Biting her lip, she gestured to the bed, inviting him to join her. Removing his tunic and his boots he sat atop the mattress. She rubbed his back, her hand warm, pressing and kneading and knowing he liked her touch. He bit back his moan. Maker, how he loved how her hands touched him.

“Cullen,” she muttered.

“Tell me what you’re thinking.”

The motions of her hands ceased. “I don’t want to lose you.”

“You won’t.”

“You won’t lose me either, all right? Not to anything. But I don’t want to lose you to anyone. Especially yourself, or Maker, myself. And I was frightened that day because…”

She did not continue. He laid next to her, still not ready to fall off the cliff into the water below, but not ready to unravel her thread. He would never be ready to unravel her thread.

“I see you,” she muttered. “I see you now and I love you. But I don’t know if—”

He wasn’t sure if he wanted to hear it. He had to all the same. “What love?”

She was so, so beautiful. “Cullen. Did I make you into something you’re not? Like how I did with…”

Asher. He didn’t know what to say, other than he knew she saw him for him, but perhaps he too fooled himself into seeing something he didn’t want to see. So much of his life was spent in unhappiness, though he never realized it at the time, so consumed by duty he was. The Inquisition made him happy. The thrill of her, being with her and talking with her, made him happy. Falling in love with her made him happy. But did he want it so much, that—

“Cullen…” She wrapped her arms around him, linking her arms. She was the one that now rested her chin to the crook of his neck, breathing in his scent. “I don’t think it’s true,” she mumbled. “I don’t, but—”

But she had the thought. Having the thought, it wasn’t so bad, he thought. Hoped. He had been doing a lot of hoping since they returned from the Shrine of Dumat.

“Hold me,” she said. “Hold me before I leave. Please.”

Because he also wanted to be near her, he held her that night. He told her his mother and father held no secrets between them, and he was glad that neither were they. She let him listen to his beating heart as he stroked her hair as he thought about the threads and the winter and the summer. He thought of what would happen during the battle and how he could not always protect her. He thought of how sometimes she would not want his protection. Worst of all, he wondered if he wanted Lydia’s love so much he fooled himself into thinking he was a better man than he was. He wondered if what she said to him that night before they arrived at Skyhold, about finding his redemption through her, was right.

He felt her rise in the morning. He barely slept but he was in the midpoint from the fade and waking life as she rose and dressed. He felt her lean into him, careful not to wake him up. Like the wings of a butterfly her fingers ghosted over his cheekbones, lips caressing his forehead.

“I do love you,” she muttered. “I _want_ to always love you. But why can’t we ever leave winter?”

She left soon after, and when he at last rose, he found his coin laying on her bedside table.

 

* * *

 

 “Commander.”

Cullen’s hand in his pocket, his thumb preoccupied with the chain and coin. Reluctant to turn his gaze from his window to give his attention to Morrigan, he sighed. He was thankful for her knowledge and assistance, assistance specifically pertaining to his own…struggles, but her cool demeanor, iciness, and knowledge of what happened during some of the worst moments of his life always made him uneasy. Besides, he already knew what she would speak of. In the week that followed their return from the Arbor Wilds, Morrigan discussed with Cullen, Lydia, Leliana and Josephine that what Samson and Corypheus sought was inside an Elven temple, specifically, the temple of Mythal, and they could not allow Corypheus or the Red Templars inside.

“Lady Morrigan, one we arrive, Ser Rylen will lead a skirmish, and—”

“I came to tell you that I will be accompanying the Inquisitor and her party upon arrival.”

She mentioned Lydia, and Cullen clenched the coin all the more tightly. “Did you mention it to her before she left?”

“She was the one who asked me.”

“I see.”

She could tell he found this conversation less than ideal or pleasant. “Commander, I tell you because the ambassador and Leliana have already left. I know you will be leaving tomorrow with the soldiers. I needed to tell you this now.”

“I appreciate it.”

She stood, tall and proud. “You are worried? Do not be. Your men trust you.”

“I have no worries in regards to their training,” Cullen said. “They have prepared.”

“You worry for your Inquisitor then?”

He didn’t like this, how every conversation with her was like he was on trial. “My Inquisitor?” he retorted.

“Yours in the sense she is your lover.”

When he gave no comment, she shifted, but when she spoke again, she spoke with a strange sort of tenderness, and understanding that he didn’t think her capable of. “She is strong,” Morrigan said. “But you know that, don’t you?”

“I know that.”

“Do you? How do you see her?”

“She’s the woman I love,” he said, with no hesitation.

“But she is more.”

“Of course she’s more. She’s the Inquisitor, the Herald, the—”

“Symbols. All symbols. She is one, perhaps, to some. To most even. Stories will be written about her and when she is gone and you are gone no one will know the real her. You did. You have that privilege. Yes, see the symbol of her, but it is not everything. And if you love her as you say you do, that is not the part of her you love. It’s the woman. Not what she was supposed to be in your life, but what she became and what she is.”

What she became. What Lydia became to him. Symbols, and meanings...everything. 

Did they both do the same thing?

 _You see me as Lydia,_ she said, so long ago. Ages ago. After he held her and told her the story of Cliodna and before he kissed her for the first time. Maker. Cliodna. He forgot how he saw her dance in the snow in Haven and thought she was Cliodna. But soon after and after, he stopped seeing her as Cliodna. He saw Lydia. He fell in love with Lydia, but somewhere along the way—

He understood. He knew. He knew it then.

He needed to tell her.


	45. Left to Lose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, this will be coming to an end in about five chapters. hope you all have enjoyed the ride so far as much I as I have loved writing this :)

Asher always had nothing left to lose.

He never made choices for himself. It was the monastery at age eight when his mother decided one extra mouth to feed was too much. He didn’t know her first name or anything about his mother before she dropped him off, other than she had brown hair like his, she was sad a lot of the time, and he tried to make her smile. Maybe then, it was wrong to think he never had anything to lose. He lost his mother after all. But after that, when he took the first the vial of lyrium at twenty when they decided he was good enough to be a full templar, there was nothing else. Not until Lydia. The only thing he ever had, and he lost her twice. Three times maybe, if he considered the last time he saw her. Three times.

Yet once again, he had nothing left to lose. He was dying. He could feel the red in his veins. Worse than poison. Poison didn’t rot, didn’t make your body disintegrate or make cancerous growths that burned every time he moved. They grew on his shoulder first, then his abdomen. Riding was difficult and made everything burn, but he stole the horse from Lindvale near the Shrine of Dumat and he rode to the Arbor Wilds, to Samson. Where else did he have to go?

Samson was at the camp with the others, not a bit surprised when he showed up. The man scoffed. “I knew you would be back,” he said, and he was given another set of armor. He always hated the templar uniform. He hated it even more now, just like he hated Samson. He just rode back there because he always never had anything to lose. Lydia made sure of that.

He was dying. He was so naïve at first to think that he would be alright, that he could take more poison and he would be alright, but what else could he and Elaine do? She got the better of it, there was no growth, no nothing on her body, but they were dying. At least they were dying together. That made it better. Not alright, but better. There was solidarity in that. Then Elaine was taken and there was nothing after that. Till he had hopes of Lydia again.

Lydia.

Lydia, Lydia, Lydia. Was he truly so naïve to think she would remain a virgin for him, and keep herself chaste because once they shared something? He was always her hope before, her reminder that he was more than what the chantry made him. He looked at her that day he decided he would damn it all and have her, and she saw more than the chantry’s machine and tool. She was his hope.

He wasn’t her hope. Her hope was elsewhere. Maybe her hope was him.

She looked at _him_ , the commander, differently than she ever looked at him. Asher knew it, hated it. Despised it. What did he have that Asher didn’t? Well. Everything. That man had everything Asher didn’t, he realized later. For as much as Asher could berate the man for being a puppet for ten years in Kirkwall before finally breaking free, look where he was now. Freer from the chantry than Asher ever was. Ironic

The kitten and the lion, he called them in jest as he rode to the Wilds. But she not his kitten anymore, and Asher was more lost than he ever was in his life. He saw her with the Inquisition, before the battle truly began. Little kitten with no lion. How contemplative she looked. How sad, like his mother looked sad sometimes.

The battle was going to begin. He wondered what she thought of. The Commander, perhaps?

Either way, it wasn’t him.

 

* * *

 

She felt naked without the coin, not shielded without his usual goodbye kiss. Kisses could not shield, not truly, but she learned to carry them with her when she lonely. She learned to remember the feel of them to recollect when battle became too difficult and the nights long and unbearable without his touch, without his warmth. She tried then, to remember kisses before she left, before Asher. They were all tainted.

Days they had been in the Wilds. Solas, Cassandra and Varric would accompany her to the Temple, as would Morrigan. Lydia received her updates from Leliana. Cullen’s soldiers thinned out the stragglers, but the battle did not begin till dawn. With the first rays of sunlight, Cullen led the charge. He and his men, they were the ones that put their life on the line so Lydia and her party could make it to the temple. She wasn’t sure she believed in the Maker. She still prayed for them. She prayed for him.

By a stream she stood. In battle there was the clarity before, the clarity accompanied by the silence. She saw her reflection. Long hair pulled at the top of her head. It would have been easier to cut it off again, but it reminded her of her mother, so she kept it. Long jacket and gauntlets and boots, her staff against her back. She wished Cullen was there. Even if she ruined it, she wished Cullen was there.

“Are you ready?”

Lydia pried her eyes away from the water, standing to meet Leliana. She nodded.

“Morrigan will meet you in the forward camp.”

Lydia was surprised she wasn’t there already. She herself had been lingering, waiting a while before heading off, and all her companions understood why. They were more understanding than she deserved.

“Where is Morrigan now?” Lydia asked.

“With Kieran in the healer’s camp.”

“Ah.”

In the rustling wind, the red hair that peaked through Leliana’s hood danced. “She’s changed so much,” she said, in a moment of quiet reflection. The calm before did that, made one reflect, say all the things they should have said before.

It made Lydia think. “Can people really change so much?” she wondered, more to herself that anyone else.

“Of course. People change every day. You’ve changed since first we met. Asher, I’m sure has changed since last you met.”

Of course she knew. Lydia didn’t know why she was so surprised.

Another moment of quiet before Leliana continued. “We shouldn’t be afraid of that. Nor should we ever think that we’re ever done changing.”

Tapestries and the different color threads. No one’s tapestry was ever done Always new threads were added in. Always. She thought of that, as she left.

She met her party. In the distance, there was the explosion. The soldiers, cutting her a path to the temple where Corypheus was. The time arrived. The time that decided the fate of everything else. She had a habit of running toward her destiny. She always ran ready. Sometimes she ran towards outcomes she wasn’t sure she wanted to see, but she ran ready. This time she ran and when she ran she carried the hope that she would see the end of winter. It would end, wouldn’t it? Winter always ended, for spring.

Maker. Their spring, and their summer. She could still have it. Maybe she didn’t ruin it.

She ran through the Emerald and serpentstone wilds. Fire rained down and bits from the fade from her staff, Morrigan near her calling the cold while Varric left his traps mines, the templars in their mad rage falling over them while Cassandra stood in their defense. They ran and they defended, and soon Lydia forgot how worn out her body was, and how her magic took longer to recoup because she would not take lyrium. They met Inquisition soldiers along the bank of the river, flanking the templars and raining a hail of arrows upon them. “Almost there!” Morrigan shouted, while Solas mused that he had seen elves in the forest. They would find more answers in the temple, Morrigan said. They would find everything in the temple. And just when Lydia had the thought, that they would not find what she sought in the temple, Cullen, her Cullen…there he stood.

He was there, sword in shield in hand. He didn’t have his mantle, and she wondered why before realizing it didn’t matter, he was still her lion. Her lion, golden in the sunlight with his hair unruly and days old beard. Her lion even though dark shadows lined his eyes and his skin was sheened with sweat and he looked more elsewhere than he looked there. Then he saw her.

So long she had thought about the two of them, and if she created something that wasn’t him in her mind, but rather something she wanted him to be. Yet that vision of him that she may have she held, and the one he held of her as well, it never changed. It never could. An eternal summer and spring in her mind never could. But Cullen, for who he was and who he would one day may become, he did. He could. More than that, he did already. He changed every day. She couldn’t be afraid of that.

The last of the templars fell, and in the silence, she thought of how she always ran towards her destiny. And Cullen didn’t ever run away from his past, who he was, or the mistakes he made. That’s why she loved him. She loved Cullen and all his colors and threads, she loved how much he changed in the time that she knew him. She was no longer frightened that she had seen something in her mind she wanted because she wanted so much. She already knew she did, see what she wanted to see. Still, paired with that, she saw his everything. And she wasn’t afraid that one day, his colors and threads may change. She wasn’t afraid of an eternal winter, not when she knew how to dance in the snow.

She had one moment where she thought that perhaps he would not run to her. After all, what had she done or what had she said that would make so fine and proud a man find solace in the break of battle with her? Yet in that moment of deafening quiet where she had never seen anything so beautiful, he saw her, and he saw his home.

“Cullen,” she breathed, and their images mirrored, staff, sword and shield falling to the floor. “Cullen,” she said, and she ran to her home with open arms.

She found home in the middle of the fighting, the middle of everything. Home was in his lips and she said “you’re here,” breathlessly into his chest after their desperate and hungry kiss confirmed what his lips on hers assured again and again. “You’re here,” she breathed again before the next one, softer and tender and loving as she wrapped her arms around his neck. “Please forgive me. I shouldn’t have—”

He pulled her closer. “It was both of us. Forgive me Lydia, love.”

Did she deserve such a tender name, spoken so sweetly and reverently? She didn’t know. She didn’t even know she was weeping until his gloved hand wiped the tear away.

“Cullen,” she muttered, taking his hand. “Cullen. I had to tell you. I’m not afraid.”

She brought his hand to her cheek, his thumb brushing her jaw. “I’m not afraid. I know who you are. I’ve always known since we first met. I see all of you and how you grow and get better every day. You’re my…” She searched. What could she tell him?

She knew exactly what.

“You’re my rose,” she said. “the one that survived the winter and to become stronger and more beautiful, but still know how to change. You’ll change, and I’ll change too but I want to do that with you. I want to learn and get better with you.”

“We’ve been doing that. I think it’s only been hard to see.”

They shared a bit of a laugh, and she was happy they laughed, even in the field of battle.

“You’re Lydia,” he said. “Maker Lydia, I wanted to tell you. I didn’t think I would be able to here, but I suppose I had a little luck after all.” He chuckled at that, eliciting her to join. “You were my symbol of a life after this, for the longest time,” he continued, still holding onto her. “But you’re a woman. You’re Lydia and dammit you matter to me and it’s Lydia I want a life with… you beautiful, brave, wonderful woman who can write poetry in the middle of battle.”

She would have to tell him later it was Leliana. She made a mental note of that.

“Inquisitor—”

Morrigan, waiting. And not just Morrigan, but Cassandra too, as well as Solas and Varric. And the small skirmish of Cullen’s soldiers, including Rylen, who was grinning like the old romantic fool that he was. But at least it was only Morrigan and Solas who looked somewhat annoyed.

She brought him down for another kiss. Brief, but tender, and it said every promise they had together.

“Go,” he muttered. “I believe. I know. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

The temple door was not far off. She wasn’t afraid of what she would find, she knew that as she picked up her staff. It was because of his kisses. Carrying his kiss that tasted of everything they had gone through together. So much. She could endure anything, knowing how much they had already endured.

“Wait!”

The last voice Lydia expected to hear rung through the air. With one last look and one tug on her cloak from Morrigan Lydia was ready, but Cassandra wasn’t.

“Cass!” Lydia called, “What are you…?”

“Lass.”

Cassandra opened her arms, and never before did Lydia see her so free, or happy as she ran to Rylen and kissed him hard. Back and forth they swayed, whispering words of reassurance to each other that only they could hear, and when they parted, Lydia, Cullen, Maker, everyone in that vicinity could not keep their jaws from hanging.

“later,” Rylen and Cassandra said in unison after the hungry, desperate kiss, and while Cassandra at last broke from Rylen’s arms to Lydia’s party, she continued and promised as they ran to the temple that she would explain everything later.

Lydia ran by Cassandra’s side. “I’m impressed,” she said. “I didn’t know.”

Cassandra smirked. “I can keep many secrets Inquisitor. As can you.”

She carried the secret of his kisses. She carried them with her as they dashed to the temple, to whatever lay ahead. She carried the secret that she loved him for him and he loved her for her. And that was the most wonderful thing of all. More wonderful because the secret of their love that was no secret at all.

 

* * *

 

 

Asher had secrets.

He never told Samson that the woman who lead the forces they were against was once a woman he knew, once a woman he called kitten. The only person he told was Elaine. One night, wrapped in her arms, he confessed. They knew then that they were going to die, that the lyrium was their poison while it did nothing to Samson. They had nothing left to lose, so she told him after that the commander of the Inquisition was the man she used to know. She didn’t tell him she was a little in love with that man, the Commander, Cullen. She didn’t have too for him to know.

She went on and on about choices too, and the choices Cullen made, and the choices they made.

“But look where they are and look where we are,” she said. “Funny how some choices work out better than others.”

“I didn’t chose this,” Asher said, holding onto that stubborn belief he always carried.

“You could have chosen to die when you were given it. You chose to live. I chose to come here, to Samson."

"Why?" he asked.

Her reply was brief. "Raleigh was loyal to me. ”

They got into an argument that night, Asher saying he always had nothing to lose, his life was chosen for him and he never made a single choice for himself until Lydia. Elaine said it was bullshit. He could have done so much more. She could have done so much more. Perhaps that was why she held so much contempt for Cullen. His choices led her away from her. Asher wondered if she ever came to find out his choice was Lydia.

After Elaine was captured in the skirmish, Asher made a choice to break from Samson, break from the red templars. He knew he was just doing it because he finally came to the conclusion that there may be something better. He just didn’t think Lydia would chose something other than him. Loyalty, Elaine spoke of, but Lydia wasn’t loyal to him. So Asher decided he was going to stand by Samson as he sought the Well of Sorrows. Loyalty. Elaine always spoke of loyalty. Was he being loyal then? Would she have been proud? He never had anything left to lose, anyway. Months ago Samson plucked Asher from the earth to stand by his side, perhaps because he looked at him and saw the similarities. Samson saw the hatred Asher had toward the chantry, and to those that forced the lyrium upon him. He didn’t want to go back to Samson after breaking free, not really, but he did, because he had nowhere else left to go. It always went back to that, having nothing left to lose.

It would have been poetic, and welcome for his body to at last break in that temple following Samson and standing by his side. He wanted to be struck by one of the elves that pursued them all, or better yet, he wanted Lydia to find him, kill him herself. Instead he lived to see himself stand by Samson’s side as he proclaimed that he would be the vessel, that he would drink from the Well of Sorrows. Instead, he had to face Lydia again.

She wavered when she saw him. One brief moment that only Asher could see. She always wore her heart, always could everyone see what she was thinking. It was her downfall. Perhaps that was why they were found out in the Circle. Perhaps they were lucky they weren’t found out sooner.

He caught a glimpse of her, before he went into the temple with Samson. Lydia, and him. How could they find such happiness in battle when everything was against them? Was their happiness merely because they were together, and they couldn’t be unhappy when they were together? Whatever the reason, Asher saw and knew he had never been that happy. Maybe though that happiness came at the price of having something to lose. He was happy when he was a child, then he lost his family and he lost his mother. She gave him up herself yes, but he lost her none the less, and it hurt worse than that first prick of lyrium they injected into his veins with the needle. He had Lydia once, in his own warped way, and it hurt when he lost her. If that was the case then, he didn’t like it. It was better to have nothing and not hurt when the time came, because the time always came.

He didn’t know it at the time, but he knew later that when stood looking on before entering the temple, he hoped Cullen and Lydia would not lose each other.

“I gave them hope,” Samson said, his gravely voice filling the room, Asher standing by his side, defending himself. “I—”

“You told them their cause was worthwhile when it did nothing but destroyed. You lied to all of them. There was nothing in your path but ruin, and you knew it.”

“And that’s better than what the chantry does?” Samson demanded, his laugh better. “You. You came from the Circle. You knew what they did. You—”

“Don’t you dare think I don’t despise what the chantry has done.”

Her voice pierced the room, the echo so loud it rang in Asher’s ears. She silenced Samson, made her companions still to listen. Made him still to listen.

“I despise what they did to me,” she said. “They took me away from my family. I deserve better. We all deserve better, and for that I will always have contempt. I hate how they took a little boy from Honnleath, who wanted to help and protect and gave him poison and taught him that he was only ever good for one thing. I hate how they took a little eight-year-old boy who had the world and forced him down a path he could not escape.”

She glanced right at him. He always did feel vulnerable under her ocean blue eyes.

“I hate how he was chained,” Lydia said. “Not as I was, but chained. But look what you did in revenge. Raleigh. Asher. Look at what you both have done.”

None of it was worth it. Even when he had nothing left to lose, it wasn’t worth it.

Samson knew Lydia spoke to both of him. He was all confusion and anger, silently asking how and why, not knowing that Lydia was the love of Asher’s life. There was Samson and there was Asher in armor he did not belong in, and the poison in his veins, and Lydia. Blue eyes, so bright in the times they were together. Or maybe that was what he merely wanted to see. He didn’t know. He wouldn’t ever, but he saw what he saw then. There were the times they were together, there were the times he missed her, and there was the now. Neither a kitten nor a lioness nor hope. The Inquisitor.

Asher always had nothing left to lose.

The blade struck true. His blade, right to that crook in Samson’s armor where the plates did not protect. Asher, he had been lying to himself. There was always loyalty to lose, wasn’t there? His loyalty, and the loyalty of others. He wasn’t going to lose it. Not on that day. He was not going to lose what still made him human.

Lydia cried when he fell.


	46. Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> last part is NSFW.

There times.

In total, there had been three times in his life where he found himself on his knees, asking the Maker and Andraste questions he didn’t fully know how to ask. After Kinloch, his mind was too bleary in the aftermath of it all, and he was too bruised, too beaten, too helpless to ask anything other than _why._

_Why did this happen? Why was I the only one?_

It was different after the battle of Kirkwall, his lip bleeding as he remained on his knees. He felt the full weight of the armor that way. There was shame that time, but there was the question again. Though that time, the why was not directed at the Maker of Andraste. It was to him.

In the Arbor Wilds, he wondered again. Why. Why did so many of them fall? Why, and how many of them were once as he was?

The battle was over. And Lydia. Lydia…

He dug in his pocket, found the coin within. He couldn’t wait to give it back to her. To hold her again.

“Cullen…Cullen….!”

Rylen outstretched his hand, helping him up off the ground. “We won!” He exclaimed, his hands on Cullen’s shoulders. “Cullen, we won!”

“We won,” he said, and he managed to crack a small grin.

Rylen turned grave. For a moment, Cullen feared the worst, that something had happened to her. Panic flickered, only abating when Rylen quickly assured him, she lived. They all lived.

“The scouts saw it.” Rylen said. “She and the others, they went through the mirror, and Corypheus, he disappeared, but—”

The Eluvian. “So there was an Eluvian in the Temple,” Cullen said, remembering what Morrigan said before they departed.

“Oh, that’s what it’s called? What does it do?”

“Morrigan explained it to us. She believed that if the Temple had one, they could use it to make it back to Skyhold, and—”

Rylen cut him off. “No more magic shite right now. I can’t handle it.”

Cullen decided neither could he. He was too elated, and too tired. For once again, he had done it. He remained standing at the end of the battle, and he did it without the lyrium. And…

“She’s safe,” Cullen said. “She’s safe.”

“Aye. She’s safe.”

By the faraway look and all to pleased glint in his eyes, Cullen knew Rylen wasn’t referring to Lydia. “Rylen. Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, not being able to hold back his laugh.

“Because you were in a lake of fire with your own lass? I don’t know!” Rylen too, couldn’t contain his laughter. “It doesn’t matter, Commander Curly.”

Instinctively, his hand flew to his hair. Rylen was right. The pomade he dutifully carried from Skyhold to the Wilds didn’t hold.

“Your secret is out,” Rylen said. “You’ve been found out.”

Their laughter rang through the glen, loud and boisterous.

“Mate,” Rylen said when their laughter quieted, his tone changing from carefree to stern and serious. “It’s Samson. They did a number on him, but that bastard is still alive.”

“He lives?” Cullen held back a litany of curses. “How?”

“I had the men tie him up. The Inquisitor can judge him.”

He nodded. That would be for the best.

“There was another man there.”

Rylen’s voice had suddenly become grave again. “What do you mean?”

“There was another templar who stood by Samson. He’s wounded but alive. Barely. I didn’t know who he was, but the scouts say they saw him fight against Samson in the end. And...he kept calling for Lydia.”

“Asher.”

“Mate,” he came closer. “Do you know who he is?”

“Yes.” He took a deep breath. “I know who he is.”

“I had the men bring him out.”

“Good,” Cullen said. “Good.”

 

* * *

 

 

Lydia was sandwiched between Dorian and Cassandra at the bar of the tavern.

“Repeat it, step by step,” Dorian said. “What happened?”

She motioned for Cabot to get her a refill. “Sure about that?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. “At least five people passed out drinking more than they could handle.”

She motioned again. “If I’m telling this again, I need another. And I don’t want that cheap swill you usually give out. Give me the Ben Hasarath brew again.”

That’s what the soldiers in the Herald’s Rest called it, the stuff from Par Vollen that Bull first brought out after their first dragon in Crestwood. The first time she had the drink it burned her throat and felt like someone jabbed a red-hot poker into it, but she decided she liked it, even if she would only drink it when she needed something strong. And for as much as she repeated the events of the Temple of Mythal, she needed the strongest liquor they had.

Cabot obliged her request, refilling her pint. Lydia took a long swig, rubbing her throat with her hand in that technique Bull showed her to prevent excessive burning. Dorian watched over his Fereldan beer, not even hiding how impressed he was. After the drink settled, Lydia recounted the adventure.

“Hold on,” Dorian said, stopping Lydia before she could tell him about the temple. “You’re forgetting something.”

“Yes Dorian. Cullen and I kissed, declared our never fading love, and bards will sing about how we flew into each other’s arms it for years to come.”

There was hardly a need for Lydia to tell that part again. Varric already did it for her. Lydia wasn’t at the tavern in the time, but word spread about how Varric left a crowd of half-drunk soldiers swooning at the mention of how Commander Cullen and Inquisitor Trevelyan dropped their weapons and ran to each other in the heat of battle, finding one perfect moment in the midst of ruin. Maryden was supposedly writing a new ballad called “The Kiss” to commemorate it. Lydia kept the kiss. She carried it with her everywhere Maker, if she had him then, the things she would do. Litter his body with her lips, begging him for forgiveness. Mostly though, she would hold him. Feel his heart beat underneath her palm. Hold him. Not let go.

Three days since the Arbor Wilds, and there was no word yet of the status. There wouldn’t be, Lydia thought, as the journey there took some time. The journey back would take just as long, if not longer, and the only reason Lydia and her party made it back in time was because of the Eluvian. She thought of Cullen, Leliana and Josephine fretting over their disappearance, and prayed the letter they sent arrived. She hardly slept since she came back. Wine and the Ben Hassarth brew with her companions filled her days, keeping her from thinking of Cullen and how he was perhaps worrying himself over her whereabouts. Her inner circle, her family, they knew that. She drank tea in the morning with Vivienne, who spoke of soirees and life in the Montsimard Circle, all the while promising Lydia she would have to take her to a lingerie shop in Val Royeux when things calmed down. She watched Blackwall carve more griffons for the children as he spoke of the Grand Tourney in the Marches during the afternoon, and at night she sat in the Tavern with Sera, Dorian, and Varric, drinking and laughing over Wicked Grace. She wasn’t too great at it, even with the all-around decent deck Varric gifted her. After losing Lydia gave her own gift to Cassandra, a glass of mead, and the mead made her divulge secrets about the other unexpected kiss the party got to witness outside the Temple of Mythal.

“You wish me to tell you?” Cassandra asked at the time, huffing. “Very well. It began one night at the Approach, after the situation with the Wardens.”

Lydia almost spit her own drink out. “That long?”

“We wanted to keep it secret. Well...I did, to be more accurate. And there was something very thrilling about keeping it a secret.”

“Cass! You…sneaky warrior lady!”

She smirked. “It’s still thrilling. Even if everyone now knows.”

“What keeps it so thrilling is there some things only you two know.”

“How right you are,” Cassandra said, and the two of them clinked their glasses.

Three days passed, and still Dorian wanted to hear the story. Lydia obliged in telling it again, Cassandra adding her thoughts as well. Since they returned he had been collecting everyone’s stories.

“Why didn’t you drink from the Well, Lydia?”

Dorian hadn’t asked that yet, though many others certainly had. She had no easy answer. Only a selfish one.

She told the truth. “The consequences. They were too much. And Morrigan was willing. More than willing.”

“You’re not worried she’ll use what she knows against you?”

“No.”

Cassandra set her mead down. “I don’t approve.”

“I know that Cassandra,” Lydia replied. “But do you want to know the truth? The Well belongs to neither of us. It simply could not belong to Corypheus.”

“Are you alright?” Dorian asked.

“I’m fine.”

“That’s not what I meant. Asher, he—”

It became quiet suddenly, as Lydia remembered. Asher raising his sword, striking Samson, and Samson striking back. Him falling to the floor, Lydia using the rune. Samson’s fall. Kneeling by Asher after, holding his hand. Then Morrigan was tugging at her, telling her they had to leave.

“I was…trying to not think of him too much,” Lydia admitted.

Cassandra put her hand on her back. So did Dorian. How many times had she mourned for Asher? How many times before it got easier?

“He was misguided,” Cassandra said, breaking the silence. “But in the end, he did something worthwhile.”

“Cullen was right,” Lydia muttered. “He should never have kissed me, that day in the library. He should never have—” She closed her eyes. “He could have been someone better if he had made different choices. Asher. Oh.” She whispered his name like she did as they lay hidden together between the bookshelves in the Circle. As if they were real lovers, together in a meadow. He always looked so alive, when she said his name like that. She whispered it much the same way, before she had to run again. Asher. Such a name, that could have meant so much more. Maybe it did mean more.

“I’m sorry Lydia,” Dorian said.

She would have said it was all right, but she didn’t know if it was. “Do you think he had closure, Cassandra?” she asked, thinking of all the things she hoped for him.

“I hope so,” she replied.

Perhaps at last, Asher found freedom. In the end, but it was what he always wanted. What so many wanted but couldn’t give themselves. What she had learned to find. Better to have it at the end, then to never know it. Or at least, that’s what she told herself.

“Inquisitor!”

She knew precisely who was calling her. “Leliana!” Lydia shouted, rising from her stool, meeting Leliana halfway, in the center of the room where they all danced. Purple shadows lined under her eyes. She was haggard and worn out, her bobbed hair in disarray and it’s usual braid gone.

“You’re alright. Thank the Maker!” she said. “You’re all alright.”

Cassandra joined. “The Eluvian. It brought us here. Leliana, it’s good to see you.”

Leliana nodded, agreeing. “My scouts saw what happened. Josephine is still in the Wilds, with Celene and the chevaliers. I came here as soon as I could.”

If Leliana was here, and Josephine still in the Wilds…

“Where’s Cullen?”

Leliana turned white. “Inquisitor—”

Lydia felt Dorian behind her, putting his hand on her.

“Leliana….” she uttered, heart beginning to quicken. “Leliana…where’s Cullen?”

“Lydia.”

Leliana outstretched her hands, taking Lydia’s in hers. “Lydia. I…there was a letter waiting when I arrived. It…it’s about the Commander.”

“You’re scaring me. He’s not…no. He can’t—”

“The letter was vague, but said ‘he wasn’t well.’ But Lydia—”

She couldn’t hear anything else as they all helped her to her room.

 

* * *

 

_Dear Inquisitor,_

_I’m not sure what I should call you in all honesty. When I first heard from Cullen after…YEARS AND YEARS, (no, I will never stop hounding him for that.) You were referred to as “Your worship, the Lady Herald.” Then one day he called you “Lydia,” and I had a suspicion. He confirmed the suspicion by giving me a vague letter that promised he would write more when he had the time. Cullen thinks he’s so evasive and sly. He’s not. Not to me, anyway. And I’m sure not to you either, ha._

_But, he seemed happy when he wrote to me. In fact, I am sure he is happy. I suppose I write this then, to thank you. Our mother and father, only wanted all of us to be happy. I was worried about Cullen for the longest time, but I don’t think I have to anymore. Thank you Inquisitor. Thank you Lydia._

_And please come to South Reach when everything all settles down. Branson and Rose, I think they still are a little angry at Cullen. Frankly I am too, but I want to see him in person so I can kick his ass. Then we’ll talk. It would be nice to see him again. And it would be very nice to meet you._

_Once, again, thank you. Really. And welcome to the family_

_Mia._

Lydia read the letter dozens of times. She had done so many things dozens of times since Leliana showed her the letter Rylen wrote from the Arbor Wilds. She paced, went into the courtyard and hurled fire and ice, paced some more, and paced even more. The soldiers and guards watched her around the battlements, moving from the library to Solas’ study to Cullen’s office. That was where she always ended up, and she usually had Cullen’s mantle in her hands. Before he left, he left it in his office. She didn’t know why he didn’t take it to the Arbor Wilds, perhaps because there was a tear in it from Adamant, a tear he carefully and methodically fixed, and he didn’t wish anything else to happen to it. He may have simply forgot. She didn’t know.

No one knew anything save what the cryptic letter said. We have him. He’s wounded. Knight Captain Rylen.

She stood in his office, holding his mantle. It smelled of him. If she didn’t have him soon, if she didn’t hear anything…

But would anything happen to him? He must have taken the coin with him to the Arbor Wilds. She left it on her bedside table near him in a moment of stupidity she would never forgive herself for, and it wasn’t anywhere when she came back. If he had it, and it protected him in Ferelden, in Kirkwall, and at Adamant, it could protect him again.

His arms, his lips. His mouth everywhere. Cullen. Cullen…

“Please,” she muttered, to know one. “Please…please…”

Go to him.

The thought struck her suddenly and she frankly didn’t know why she didn’t think of it last night when Leliana told her. She wasn’t some maiden that had to wait, she had a horse, she had magic, she had her own damn self that knew how to take care of herself. How utterly stupid she was, running around like a lunatic for one day when she could have gone to him as soon as she heard. Taking his mantle and wrapping it around her, she stormed from his bookshelves to the door. Someone was entering, she could hear the other door open. It must have been Leliana or Cassandra. They had been tried to console her since the whole thing began.

“I have to go to him,” she said. “I don’t know why I didn’t leave earlier, but I’m going to him now. I have to tell him I’m sorry. I have to hold him.”

Again, she realized, but she would apologize a thousand times if she had to. “I have to go. I should have left earlier instead of acting like a complete idiot. I don’t know how bad he’s hurt, and—”

“I’m not hurt. Lydia, Lydia…”

A warm hand was on her wrist, entreating her to pull away.

“Lydia,” Cullen said, pulling her into him. “You don’t have to go anywhere. I came to you.”

He was mussed hair, golden curls in a disarray, with one, that one stubborn one, falling to his forehead. She moved it away as his hands gripped her arms, squeezing and imploring her still. She touched his face, feeling the days old stubble. Amber eyes. No one else she knew had amber eyes, she realized then. How beautiful they were. Unique, and utterly him.

He took her hand. It was so tiny in his, and his lips were warm and soft against her palm.

“It is you,” she said, her voice hoarse. “Oh, Cullen…Cullen…I thought…”

She trailed off when he held her face in his hands, allowing their eyes to meet. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered save he was there, he was there, he loved, he loved, and she had been waiting for him, her body aching and her hand not even a proper substitute for him. He was there and nothing could prevent her raw, primal, and desperate want.

They were desperate and needy, Lydia tugging at his white tunic as they kissed. They moved and she became pinned against the door, the long line of his body keeping her shielded from anyone who would enter. But Maker, she didn’t care. Cullen was there, alive. She could run the battlements, slay the most vicious high dragon, slay Corypheus by herself, but nothing would ever compel her to leave his side. Not when she was home.

His mouth moved to her neck, nipping at the skin. “How?” She found herself muttering. “Cullen…how?”

“Blasted Rylen wasn’t specific enough in the letter. As soon as we could we rode here, and…” He lost his words, pressing his lips to her neck, breathing in her scene. “Lydia, oh…love. It doesn’t matter now. I’ll tell you everything later. Just hold me.”

Her arms coiled around him. She held him, breathed him in. He smelled like sweat and sun and grass and man, and him. She was pinned against the door but she was the one in control, moving her body to better feel the strength of him, his beating heart against hers. She held and whispered in his ear words of forgiveness.

“No,” he muttered, “Lydia. Forgive me. Forgive me for ever seeing you as—”

“We’re learning together. It’s all right. I promise I will never hurt you, and if I do—”

“You can’t really hurt me.”

“If I do. Tell me. Be honest with me, and talk to me, and tell me what you feel.”

“You know it’s the same for you.”

“Yes. I do.”

Their eyes didn’t leave each other’s forms, and she swore, through his eyes she saw herself as how Cullen saw her. Lady Herald, Inquisitor, Cliodna, and Lydia. She saw how he loved Lydia more than any of them.

Her palm made smooth caresses against his neck, fingers playing the wisps of golden curls that hung at the base. The tip of her tongue outlined his lips, before leaving a warm press to his scar. A press to the scar, and a press to his forehead, cheeks, everywhere but where they really wanted. Yet when she did, kiss him slowly and softly to his scarred lips, the desperation that had been growing since the Temple of Mythal, desperation she had been bottling, at last burst. She wanted a contradiction. Gentle Cullen, and the hard, unyielding Commander that didn’t hold anything back. He knew. He knew exactly how to give her both.

He cried out, loud and guttural, and his mouth was at every bit of unexposed skin his lips could find. She matched the movement of his hips against hers, the movement only teasing and doing nothing to abate. Her hands at his back pried at his tunic, and his hands rose to help her rip it off. His chest had become tauter and stronger in just that short while, and he moaned faintly when her fingers grazed lightly over him. She coiled and wrapped her arms around him again, digging her nails into his back, and he answered by wrapping his arms around her. She gave a surprised, unattractive squawk as he lifted her off the ground, legs wrapping around him for balance, and before she could even think that maybe she weighed too much and he should set her down, he set her upon his desk. Cullen swept his arm, and books, bottles and parchment falling to the floor and laying pooled around them. Glass too shattered against the stone floor, further evidence of their lust. How everyone would see. How maybe she wanted them to see how the Commander and the Inquisitor made it up to one another.

Her legs were still wrapped possessively around him as they continued to kiss. Reluctantly he tore his hands away from her thighs to remove her tunic. In all of this, Lydia had somehow still held onto his mantle, and he threw it behind her in a makeshift cushion before his hands clumsily fumbled with the buttons of her tunic. Eventually it became too difficult to simply undo them, and with her eager hands guiding him he ripped the button from the seam before throwing the shirt to the rest of the discarded and broken objects. They smirked together, for she wore no breast band. She sank against the desk after, and she sighed at the soft fur of the mantle behind her head and back. Cullen peered down at her, and she realized then, that just how she had been starved for his touch, she too had been starved for his hungry, amber gaze. It was a gaze that drunk the sight of her naked body like she was the last thing he would ever see. He made her feel beautiful and he made her feel treasured. He made her feel wholly herself, because he didn’t see one part of her. He always looked everywhere, from her eyes, to the scar under her breast, to the tiny other cuts on her thigh and shoulder. He always saw everything. He wouldn’t ever stop seeing everything.

She helped him yank off her skirt and shoes, and he laughed at the gaudy, ridiculous and frilly silken undergarment she wore. She would have explained that she was in no mood that morning to dig for something more sensible, and it was all the better to for him to take off anyway, but something inside her dropped, suddenly and all too unexpected. Sadness perhaps, loneliness. Regret at everything she had ever done to make him feel that she didn’t see all of him.

He leaned down, and in a moment of being the Commander, directing her and leading her against the desk, he leaned down and caressed her softly. He bestowed a single chaste kiss, slow and loving, and she felt gentle, loving Cullen, who adored and loved and believed and always would. She felt Cullen, and she felt home.

She reached for his hand. He squeezed. “I love you,” he said.

“I love you too.”

He knelt before her in an adoring reverence, eyes never leaving hers as she rose from the desk. His breath was warm over her wet arousal, lips warmer still against her damp inner thighs. He grasped her hips, entreating her to part a little more. She bit her lip. His beard tickled as he tasted the dampness. And then he flicked his tongue against her and gave her his mouth.

The vibration of his hum coupled with the gentle movements of his tongue brought her to weave her fingers through his hair. He implored her legs to part a little more so he could further spread her, and she moaned and offered praise for her beloved as he swirled a long digit inside of her, because truly, she could imagine no greater paradise than the one they had created.

“Cullen. Love. Dearest, I—”

“Come on my mouth,” he rasped, commanded.

His mouth pulled it from her body, thighs clamping around his head. The peak was bliss and the kiss afterwards was flame. Her taste was salt and Cullen’s lips were burning. He burned for more, so could feel his clothed hardness as she tugged at his breeches. He sprung free and she gave no preamble. She laid herself back down on the desk and on the mantle, and as Cullen took her ankle and hoisted it over his shoulder, she wondered if he would ever sit on his desk again without thinking of her naked and spread, touching her breasts as he positioned himself at her entrance, before sliding in her silken, warm heat. He was neither slow nor fast as he moved, holding back praise for her body and moans. They were already on the desk, she didn’t care if they were loud. She wanted him loud. She became animalistic and un-adulterated, and as she moved her other leg to his shoulder Cullen understood. He said her name and he said he loved her. He praised how good she felt and she clenched around him, rousing him further. He caressed her legs as he moved and held her hand, their interlocked fingers the sole thing that kept her grounded amidst the sensations of the mantle against her back, the stretch of him paired with the stretch of her legs, and then the feeling of his fingers rubbing at her clit. She came again and he felt every inch of it around him, so much he shuddered and cried out her name. His name on her lips, his cry. It was music.

He pulled out and before she could protest the loss of him, she realized he was halting his end. She moved upward, outstretching her arms and beckoning him closer. He climbed the desk and he was on top of her, then inside her again, and it was slow and gentle with little kisses given to her face and neck. Commander, but mostly Cullen, and as he whispered, “I’m yours,” she thought of how beautiful it was, that despite everything that happened, the roads that they had chosen had led them together.

He held him as he came and spilled inside her, her legs locking around him in a silent plea. There was no need for her to plea. He stayed with her, he always would stay with her, and he caressed her hair and the little ringlets that had fallen across her face before their lips met in one more lingering, slow kiss. When at last he rested his head against her breast, and she wove through his hair, she thought of all of their seasons. All of the shades, all of the things they had been through. How much they still had to learn. She couldn’t wait.

“Cullen,” she muttered, caressing his back. “There’s something I have to tell you.”

“Anything.”

“Don’t ever let me leave home ever again without kissing you goodbye. At least.”

His smile was home. He was home. “Never,” he promised.

His head dipped down. They were home again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There had to be a desk scene in this thing :p


	47. The Last Waltz

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nsfw beginning

Forgiveness. She gave a thousand little kisses to his lips, neck, and shoulders, and still she was not done. A thousand kisses for a thousand apologies. For her, he did the same. If she asked, he would paint apologies on her skin for the rest of his life.

He didn’t know how they made it to her quarters. His world dissolved until there was only Lydia. He simply remembered laying in her arms on top of his desk, his trousers gathered around his ankles and boots, and his head buried against the crook of her shoulder. Then he realized he was probably crushing her, and he probably didn’t smell very good at all after the long journey. Her answer to his unspoken concern was to laugh, capture him in another hungry kiss, and proclaim that she rather liked the way he smelled. He didn’t so much laugh after but snort, and she garnered so much amusement from it he almost found it embarrassing. That is until she said she thought it “very adorable.” Then she told him she loved him, and he told her he loved her too, and they migrated back to her room where they bathed and made love again.

They were on their sides at first, Cullen’s hands caressing her thigh and hips before she draped a leg over him. They made love slowly, kissing and making promises, and when she wanted his weight on top of her, he complied, neither lost nor wandering in her body, but knowing he was right where he belonged.

He asked again, as he lay buried deep inside her, if she truly did forgive him.

“No one said we wouldn’t make mistakes in this,” she said, brows bent in bliss. “Of course I forgive you. Please forgive me.”

He kissed the tip of her nose, making her titter. “How could I not forgive the woman with the most beautiful hips in all of Thedas?” he asked, pressing their foreheads together.

“I don’t know about that one. I think there are several people in our inner circle who can win that title.”

“But I’m in love with you. Of course, I think you have the loveliest of everything.”

“So if you weren’t in love with me I wouldn’t be the loveliest woman in Thedas?”

“Maker’s breath woman.”

From the way she laughed, he knew his kisses sufficed in letting her know everything. “You make me feel alive,” she said, laughing a little at the prickly beard that had gone a bit overgrown. “Cullen. Oh…Cullen…”

His fingers drifted. “Say my name,” he asked of her, making small circles. “I want…”

“Cullen…Cullen…I— _maker_.”

“Lydia.”

He came a beat after her, white hot and warm. Quiet came a little later, the two of them seeing the world in each other’s eyes. It made his mind wander. He wondered.

“How long has it been?” he muttered as her tongue drifted over his neck and pulse, “since you told me you loved me?”

“A couple of months, at least,” she replied. “Why?”

“I thought it would…abate somewhat. My want for you.”

“Has it?” she asked, slyly, conspiratorially. Coquettishly.

He shook his head. “No. I want you more.”

“Even after…?”

He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “You were right earlier. It was both of us, in part. I think we’re both in our youth a little bit. At least when it comes to love.”

“I never want you to think that I don’t see your everything. Or that I think you’re broken. You’re not. You never were. You’re…I admire you so much.”

“Admire?” He would never have suspected, never have known.

She nodded. “You found yourself again. I don’t know if I would have.”

“You would have. You did. Throughout everything that’s happened, you remained Lydia.”

“You remained Cullen. You remained strong. It’s like I said in the Wilds. You’re my rose that survived the winter and— Oh, maker.” She blushed, covering her eyes. “I’m sorry. That is terrible, isn’t it?”

He suspected that’s why he liked it. “No,” he promised. “I love it. I wish I could write you a poem.”

She winked. “I think you might have one or two in you.”

He grinned. “Here’s a simple one now: Beautiful, brave woman. I love you, and I want us. Always”

“You’ll always have me.”

“You won’t ever stop fighting for us?”

“Never.”

“Neither will I.”

They held each other, and time was meaningless. Strange, because time had always been his concern. How there wasn’t ever enough of it, how it was slipping away. They were sailing and it was her touch that kept him anchored and safe, but a very firm rapping at her door informed them a little later that there were more people in the world than the two of them. He told Lydia to “stay,” but the rapping became more frantic and she had no choice but to rise. He still held onto her, even as she grabbed the nearest article of clothing she could reach—his mantle, and wrapped it around her shoulders. Thankfully though, his moment alone was only brief. She sank back into the bed, back into his arms, muttering about how it was Leliana checking in on her, letting her know what she had known for hours: he was back, and he was all right, and they all were going to have to postpone the meeting till tomorrow morning. He was more than a little thankful for that.

She kept his mantle on, and she beamed as his eyes drunk in her form, swallowed by the rich burgundy fabric. Her being in something that was his made him remember one other thing.

Her eyes widened when he pulled out the coin from his breeches. He carried it with him during the battle and back to Skyhold, and when she put it back on again, it glinted in the evening sun.

“So long as one of us has it, we have our luck,” she said.

He left a soft kiss to her forehead as she curled closer to him again. “In the midst of all of this,” she mumbled softly, “I found you. I’ll never stop feeling thankful, or lucky because of that.”

She wiped away a tear that fell from his cheek. Such a simple proclamation, and he was overwhelmed with him. But he didn’t mind, and in some way, he knew he needed then. Years ago, he knew he would have hid his face from her and pretended like the tears weren’t falling. Years ago, he may not even have cried. He would have kept it all bottled. He didn’t realize, not until he was away, how the templars turned him to ice. He was an icy wall of quiet, bottled up rage that left him cold and unfeeling and unable to cry. But tears were not a weakness. His mother told him that once, before he left Honnleath.

Lydia kissed them as they fell. She made him remember tears were a gift.

He was not a cold, unfeeling wall of ice. He was a man, and if that was stripped away to something simpler, he was a soul. He was everything that entailed. He could have rage, he could hate, he could make mistakes. He could learn from them, he could try to be better. He could love. He did love. He loved her, and though that love could be almost overwhelming, it made him feel like he drank from the rays of the sun. Whatever ice was left in his life before, it melted in Lydia’s sun.

She kissed his tears. They kissed each other.

“Home,” Lydia said. “You’re my home, you are my love, and…”

“Your rose?”

“My rose.”

In the morning, Lydia was still in his arms, and she was still wearing his mantle. He woke and he knew, whatever sorrow may happen, whatever would come, they would face it together. Neither running nor hiding, but trying together.

 

* * *

 

An armed carriage brought Samson to Skyhold for judgement. Asher, wounded, unconscious, and dying, came with him.

He was brought in the healer’s carriage along with the Inquisition’s other wounded. When he was ushered in the infirmary, Lydia asked Sabine to attend to him. She tended to him the same way Elaine was tended to, at least at first. As when Asher, still in a delirium, murmured softly maker, please get me out of this, Lydia knew. She told Sabine that the potion that slowed the spread of the red lyrium should be administered no more.

Since the wounded arrived, Cullen and Lydia frequented the infirmary, helping the healers wherever they could. There was not a single soldier under his command that Cullen didn’t personally get to know at least a little, and every one of their wounded he spoke to and made sure they were alright. He let them know how grateful he was. And for many of them as well, seeing the Herald of Andraste, having her hold their hand did more than they could put into words, more than Lydia herself could fathom. More than a year it had been, and still Lydia couldn’t get used to knowing what all being their Herald entailed.

It was still better than going to Asher’s side. Even looking at him on his cot, pale, brows creased in agony, and fading away…it was too overwhelming.

Then two days passed. Sabine came to her, and told her he was awake.

She stood outside his door, one hand against it, part of her willing to remain. It was how it had been since he arrived. She lived in a realm of knowing it would be easier not to go in and face him, but knowing it would be cowardly to remain.

He was dying. The one thing that linked her life before to her life in the Inquisition, was dying.

How many times did she mourn for him? None of them made this easier.

“Lydia, love.”

She closed her eyes, Cullen’s hand on her back anchoring her. “I know I should go,” she muttered. “But it still doesn’t make it easier.”

“Hardly anything is easy.”

She glanced at him. Purple shadows under his eyes had faded since he had been getting more sleep. He had shaved. That, along with his naturally curly hair and casual attire told the whole Inquisition that at last, their commander was relaxed and better rested after the battle. That all would change, when at last Lydia would call for Samson’s judgement. But she could at least have one more day of a relaxed and happy Cullen, one that indulged in butter cakes. She could at least have one more day of her favorite Cullen.

Either way, he was right, when he said that hardly anything was easy. She did know at least one thing though, that came very easy. She would have to tell him later.

He squeezed her hand. She would never be ready, not truly.

She walked in to meet him anyway.

Asher smiled, when he saw her in the doorway. It was a subtle one, but it reached his eyes. It was really him that smiled. It made it easy to smile back. She felt like she was the version of herself from the Circle again, though happier and more confident. A survivor.

“Hello Lydia,” he muttered, and it truly was like before, when they were just a boy and a girl in the Circle who saw something in one another they had never seen or realized before.

“Hello Asher,” she muttered.

“I’m awake now.”

She was surprised she could laugh, all things considered, but laugh she did anyway. “I know,” she replied.

“That is…obvious, I suppose. Sorry.”

“You always voiced the obvious though,” she recalled. “Do you remember the first week we were together in the library, how we both jumped at that sound of my hips knocking some books down?”

His grin broadened. “I do remember.”

“You were holding me, and we both froze for a moment before realizing what it was and what happened. You know what you did? You looked at me and said, ‘Maker, if that was a templar or another apprentice, we would be in so much trouble.’ I mean…No? _Really_?”

He too was surprised at the sound of his own laugh, and so too was Lydia. So much so she was compelled to sit by him. Yet the laughter was undercut when Asher winced, his hand moving to the bandage underneath his tunic. Whether from the lyrium, or Samson's wound, she didn't know.

“Asher…”

“You cried, you know. When I fell anyway, in the Temple. That was…unexpected.”

She did cry. She didn’t have time to really cry, but cry she did. “I thought you were gone.”

“Samson didn’t kill me then,” he said slowly, perhaps even mournfully. “Well...obviously. It’s going to be the lyrium that does it. It would have been the lyrium either way, but at least I’m not alone now. I thought I was alone at the temple.”

She fell. Poor, poor Asher, at the temple alone, no one there to help him as he lay wounded. “Believe me, I would have stayed if we could,” she said. “We had to go.”

“I know kitten. You had to save the world. I understand.” He sighed, briefly looking away. “I’m sorry. I forgot. You don’t want to be called kitten anymore.”

She came a little closer. “You’re not alone anymore,” she promised him.

“I never wanted to die alone, you know.”

There was something boyish about his brown eyes. Instinct led her to push back the strands of hair that had fallen across his forehead, to better see his eyes.

“You’re beautiful,” he muttered.

She looked into his, and she knew. He did see her as beautiful, in this their time together now.

“You were, one bright spot in the Circle. You know that, right?”

The sincerity of the words were overwhelming. “You were my bright spot too Asher,” she said.

“That…good.”

Her eyes drifted to his hand, long fingers resting against the sheets. Without a single thought of why not, she took his hand, allowing their palms to meet. Their fingers interlocked. It occurred to her then, that out of all the times they shared kisses with one another, hidden away between the bookshelves of the Circle, never once did they hold hands. The typical first step of almost every couple, they never had. Here, they were at the beginning again. She saw everything that happened, everything they had been threw together. She felt the clandestine kisses, felt the piercing, yet numb hurt at losing him once. She felt the healing. She felt the realization that what happened between them, should never have happened the way he went about it.

But she looked at the sad brown eyes. He squeezed her hand, pouring every last once of energy into it. She never loved him. But she could neither hate nor be indifferent. Not to Asher.

“Mum…”

She held on tighter. “Asher.”

“Mum. You…would never abandon me, would you?”

“Asher, it’s me. It’s Lydia.”

“Mum. Mum’s here too. I know. I—I know.”

His eyes sparkled, and Lydia swore, perhaps she really was there.

“You would have liked Lydia,” he said with a smile. “Sometimes… I thought about us living together, you know. Didn’t you too Lydia?”

“I…I did.”

“Not a mage, not a templar. Just us.”

“I thought about us,” she said, and it was the beautiful, beautiful truth. “All the time, I thought about just being us.”

And at that moment, there was nothing stopping them.

Asher’s ghosts continued to dance and sway. “She’s going to be happy, I think,” he muttered. “She’s going to save the world and be happy. I won’t be around to see it, but—"

“You will be here,” she said. Because no matter how old and grey she would turn, no matter where life took her, she wouldn’t be able to forget Asher. There in that, was how he would live on.

“I wish we could have lived together in the cottage by the sea, Mum. Me and Lydia. At least for a little while.”

He reached over and wiped the tear that had fallen from her cheek. “Asher,” she muttered, “Don’t you know? We’re there now.”

He smiled, and it was radiant. “We are, aren’t we?”

“You can hear the waves crash, and—”

“We’re all there. Maker, it…It’s all I ever wanted. I just wanted to be happy. Oh Lydia…you and Mum…you were the only two people I ever loved. That made me happy.”

“You did make me happy too Asher.”

“But I made you sad. Mum… I made her sad, like you made me sad when you left me. I didn’t want to. I—"

She pressed her lips to his fingertips, her lips beckoning him, pleading him, _be happy. Be happy now_. “Asher,” she said. “Asher. Listen. You can hear them. Hear the waves. Feel the breeze.”

“The sand in our feet…your hair in the wind…Maker…Your eyes are blue like the sea…”

She closed her eyes, and she saw what Asher saw. She saw the cottage and she saw the ghost of things that could have been. She saw her own past, and the strangest thing of all, she saw her own mother’s eyes. They too, were blue like the sea. Her mother. She loved her, like Asher loved. She loved their garden, loved their time together, however brief it was, however marred. Her songs she would sing, everything.

“Sing for me.”

“Sing?” She was so wrapped in her thoughts, she didn’t realize her thoughts had been words.

Asher nodded. “Sing the song your mother used to sing to you.”

It was a sweet lullaby, though bittersweet. Even as a young girl, not fully able to understand what exactly it meant, it always made Lydia melancholy. But her mother was there. She was there to hold her, and though Lydia was still melancholy with feelings she did not quite understand yet, it wasn’t so bad. Not when she had someone she loved so close.

She sang for Asher, and perhaps it wasn’t so bad for him. She sang a song of lovers, one of the last waltz they danced together, and how though it was ending, the music would always play. Always, there would be music.

“ _I had the last waltz with you_ ,” she sang through tears, “ _nothing left now, save the music and my tears_.”

“Don’t cry Lydia,” Asher said. “Not when we’re happy.”

She wept even so. Even so, the last waltz came with tears. And Asher still thought she was the loveliest thing he had ever seen. Still, Asher was happy, with the only two people he had ever loved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last waltz is a real song, but it's actually called "La Dernière Valse" and is in French :)  
> Once again, thank you for reading. I cried when writing this.


	48. Happiness

It was probably done in jest, when Dorian suggested he take up an outlet in writing and write Lydia a poem. He though, took the suggestion seriously, even though the only line he had was “your eyes are blue like the sea,” which wasn’t original at all. Though Cullen had been doing some thinking, and he came to the realization that since the day he met her, he wrote thousands of thousands of poems of Lydia.

Lydia that reminded him of Cliodna, Lydia, the brave, beautiful woman. Lydia, who made him feel like he was home. He saw the words he wanted to write her as vivid emotions, yet when he tried to write it down, he found his words too inadequate. His words could not encompass everything that Lydia was, and everything Lydia was to him. It made sense, perhaps. How could words encompass everything that home was?

He thought of that, taking a few moments before he approached her in the garden. Her eternal spot was always the place near her flowers, and always she carried the scent of roses, jasmine, and the earth. She loved the flowers, loved the sun on her skin, and he chuckled when he regarded her bare feet. Once, when they were in their secret place in the grove, she kicked her shoes off and compelled him to do the same, because there was nothing like the feeling of cool grass underneath bare feet. It reminded him of when he was a boy. He used to do that, when he was young, with his siblings, and his mother would have to call them in after a long day. He had forgotten those memories, but Lydia made him remember. Loving her was remembering, there was beauty in the past. It was the future though, that he looked forward to the most.

Everything that happened, everything that was added to their tapestry, he wondered what more would happen. Out of all of it, he knew it was the simple things he cherished above all. Lydia, holding his hand after he asked her what her life would have been had she never come to the conclave. _A life without you? Never._ Her hand in his, taking off his glove to kiss his palm. Holding him that night, telling him that part of him would never move on, not really from what Samson did, but he had to live. Quiet moments. Those were the ones he cherished the most.

As she stood by her jasmine and roses, barefoot and somewhere off in her own world, he kicked off his shoes to better feel the grass underneath his feet, and met her by her roses. She regarded his form, smiled when she looked down to the grass, laughed, and welcomed him in her world.

“Lydia love,” he murmured, leaving a butterfly kiss to her forehead, her clothes and skin taking on the smell of the garden, sun and earth. “You smell good.”

“Well, I hope you think so.”

“I mean…Oh Maker’s breath.” He sighed at himself. “I’ve been trying to write a poem for you…and Andraste, perhaps I shouldn’t have told you that...but I’ve been trying for a long time, and…” Sheepishly, he shrugged. This all sounded better in his head.

“I love you?” he at last offered. And though it wasn’t his best line, it was the truth.

“You are a silly, silly, wonderful, beautiful man,” she muttered. “I love you too.”

“Good.”

She wrapped her arms around him, and he was grateful he didn’t yet put on his armor that morning. It was better to hold her close, to have her head tucked underneath his chin, and his bare hands through her hair. At any rate, he was having trouble looking at his mantle without envisioning her in it.

“They look happy,” Lydia muttered after a moment, regarding Morrigan and her son, who were at the other side of the garden. The two were side by side, poured over a book, and Cullen swore that to Morrigan, she and Kieran were the only two people in the world.

He couldn’t deny, Morrigan and her son had been in his thoughts, and she had been ever since Leliana wordlessly passed the report to him in his office. He read it silently as Leliana hovered near. And when he sat it down, they looked and regarded each other for a long moment. Then they both decided, it didn’t change what they believed.  
He wondered if it changed whatever Morrigan believed. Perhaps it was more accurate though, to say that _he_ changed in what she believed in first.

Lydia told him that as long as she would live, she would always remember Morrigan falling to her knees, pleading with her mother. He is my son.

“Love changes you. Or so I hear,” he muttered against her skin, thinking of those words. _He is my son._

“So I’ve heard.”

She peered at him, light in her eyes. Outwardly she was exuberant and bright, the same Lydia that loved and was not selfish in her love. Yet that didn’t mean he didn’t know she carried a melancholy. That didn’t mean that something hadn’t changed her recently. Something else.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

“Are you? I know Samson must still be on your mind.”

“Not as much as he could be,” Cullen admitted. “But I was asking about you, you know. Are you all right?”

He didn’t say his name, though he didn’t have to for her to know. She exhaled, lifting the weight off her shoulders, and letting go of whatever front she had put on.

“I haven’t been really myself, since it happened,” she confessed. “It might be the same as you felt, after Elaine.”

“I’m not sure if it is,” he said, taking her hand, holding it. “Elaine and I, I think at the time we were together, I thought being with her would make me myself again.”

“You did that on your own, my love.”

“I know that now. But I’m not sure if I would have known that, if it weren’t for you.”

“No. You would have.”

His lips lingered against her forehead. “I regret,” she muttered, “above all, I regret.”

“I regret too.”

“But we can’t linger. We have to live, and be happy.”

_Be happy._

“Can I tell you something?”

“Always.”

It was a long-forgotten memory, one that had resurfaced. “After the incident in the Circle, I was sent to Greenfell,” he recollected. “The Knight Commander—he thought it would be a good idea to send me away. Thought the change would…help me recover after what happened. I was there for three weeks.”

“Greenfell,” Lydia said, contemplatively. “I’ve never heard of it.”

“Neither did I, until they told me I would be sent there. It’s a small town, barely more than a blot on the map. But there was a small chantry, were a few chantry sisters took care of a few templars in the last stages of their life, or their…addiction. But there wasn’t anyone else like me there. Not at the time anyway.”

She pulled into his frame, their foreheads touching, arms intertwining.

“I spent most of my time outdoors,” he continued. “I hardly slept. But there was one sister there, Agnes. She came to me in the garden one day. It’s strange I haven’t thought of her before. I don’t know why I haven’t. It was always the bad I remember more from the past. But I’m starting to remember the good, more and more.”

“Tell me about Agnes,” Lydia said.

“Well…” Blue eyes. She was blue eyes. Not quite like Lydia’s, but not completely different either. And like Lydia too, she kept a garden. He told her so.  
“It was mostly daffodils,” he continued. “but she even had elderflower, and roses. She came and sat with me one day. She told me she wished I wasn’t so sad. She wanted me to be happy.”

“It sounds like she may have had feelings for you.”

“I don’t know about that,” he admitted.

“Did she blush around you? Did she try to remain near you?”

He blinked when he realized she was probably right, though he wondered how she could know. “Because love, knowing when someone fancies another is quite simple,” she said with a smile, reading his thoughts. “It’s just difficult to know when someone fancies you.”

There was some truth to that he thought, but for him, in those days at Greenfell, and for some time after, those thoughts would not leave him. Thoughts of love, they were not the lovely thoughts they once were. After Kinloch, it took him the longest time to truly feel clean again.

He told Lydia the same things he told Agnes, how sometimes he wished he had died. He told Lydia how Agnes held his hand, and told him someday he would know why he didn’t die. Someday, he would be happy again, and how beautiful it would be when he was.

“We can’t wish for happiness,” Cullen recalled telling her. “I know that. But I never thought I would be happy again. I wish I could tell her now, that…”

“That what?”

He saw the light in her eye again. “That I believe,” he said. “I know.”

There was witchcraft in her lips, tenderness.

“You know what Asher said, before he passed?” she muttered against him. “He said that I would be happy. He wanted me to be happy.”  
“Someday,” Cullen promised, holding her close. “Someday soon.”

“Being with you, it helps.”

“I know something else.”

She grinned at the conspiratorial glint in his eye. “What?” she asked.

“Come to the tavern later,” he suggested. “Around evening.”

“Why? Do you have something planned?”

“Am I that transparent?”

“Just to me,” she assured.

“Well, it wasn’t me. It was Varric who had this all planned, and he quite thought you would like it.”

Her excitement piqued. “Around evening? Are you going to do some work beforehand?”

“Not before a match of chess with Dorian.”

She kissed his forehead. “Don’t be too harsh on him. We’ve been practicing. He thinks he can best you now.”

“He’s…probably not correct.”

She playfully whacked his arse before promising she would see him again in the evening.

 

* * *

 

 

When the night fell, and Lydia entered the Herald’s Rest, she was welcomed by almost her entire inner circle.

Bull and Dorian were playing Wicked Grace with Varric and Rylen. Cassandra was near him, their hands linked. Dorian would deny it, as he usually did, but Lydia could see Dorian sneak Bull a few looks here and there. Cassandra too, would deny her loving eyes, but Lydia saw that plain as day as well. And Lydia thought of her own love found in the midst of chaos. The Inquisition did so much good, helped so many people. But it also became a place to love and be loved. So many stories going on, while she was swept in her own. She would never stop being grateful for how many stories there were. Especially since they were stories of love.

Cullen welcomed her with a kiss on the cheek, taking her over to the table where the game of Wicked Grace was. Josephine, Blackwall, Varric, even Cole joined in soon after, and a new game started. Josephine acted as the dealer.

“So Rylen,” Varric began as Josie shuffled. “I need to know. How?”

Varric made a grand sweeping gesture to Cassandra, so there could be no doubt what he was referring to. For his part, Rylen snickered.

“How what?” he asked, in just the right way that let everyone know, of course he knew exactly what Varric was referring to. That, and Cassandra was looking at him, dreamy and starry eyed.

Varric’s brows raised. “Come on. You know what I’m referring too.”

“Varric, you could be referring to Rylen’s tattoos, or the fact that grass is green,” Cassandra deadpanned.

“It started at the Approach after the mess with Erimond and the other Wardens,” Lydia interjected, laughing as Rylen held back Cassandra, who wanted to throw something at Lydia’s loose lips.

Cullen, meanwhile, was shocked with surprise. “That long ago?” she asked, casting glances at the couple. “Truly?”

“Why are you so surprised Commander?” Dorian chimed in, sipping his beer. “Leliana found out, who told Josephine, who told Blackwall…and I happened to find out when you pushed him against the wall in the Approach and I saw, Everyone knew, save you two, apparently.”

“Yeah!” Lydia said, looking straight into Cassandra’s eyes. “You know, _your friend_.”

“This was right when you and Cullen were having issues,” Cassandra said in her defense. “And besides, it’s as I said. I wanted it to be a secret. It seemed…more romantic.”  
“Romance. He sweeps me off my feet. Happiness in chaos,” Cole added from the side.

“Well Seeker, you didn’t do so great a job at keeping it a secret,” Varric said. “Neither did you two keep your secret, Curly and Fire.”

“Mate don’t get me started,” Rylen said, laughing. “Once we were in the tavern before Admant, and he got so drunk he started talking about her hair, and her eyes, and her hips, and—”

“Rylen,” Cullen said, severely. “Stop. Now.”

“Ha, sorry mate.”

Blackwall, who had been observing the scene, let out a laugh. “So many couples it seems,” he mused. “Love in a time of war.”

“That’s what I was thinking earlier,” Lydia admitted.

“Hmm,” Dorian said, looking at Cullen and Lydia. “You two took long enough. But with you two…” He turned to Rylen and Cassandra. “Frankly I’m surprised it didn’t happen sooner.”

“Surprised? Cassandra scoffed. “What makes you say that?”

“Do I even need to mention all those glances you casted, while everyone else thought you were buried in that little book?”

Cassandra didn’t even flinch. “Do I even need to mention that you read the same book?”

“I know!” Bull announced proudly. “So that’s where you got the idea with the—”

But Dorian covered Bull’s mouth, and that finished that.

The mead still pouring, they finally settled down to begin their game. Something happened after, something that brought forward what the entire Inquisition had been doing since the start. For whatever background or history everyone had, when they played that game of Wicked Grace, telling stories and drinking along the way, they were all unified, together, spending a not so quiet evening in happiness. They were all family. That too, was the Inquisition. Mage, templar, elf, dwarf, chantry sister or criminal, no matter what background before, when they were unified under the Inquisition’s symbol, that was all that mattered. And then there at the center, was Lydia. She was at the center of the table, the heart if it all, as she had been the heart of the Inquisition. Once, that frightened her.

She was frightened no longer. How could she ever be afraid, when her own heart was near her?

Stories were shared, that of Lydia’s unique Harrowing, Varric and Hawke’s stint at Chateau Haine, and Cullen’s colorful stories of templar training as Maryden arrived, strumming her lute. To the gentle sound of her strumming, her family’s laughter, and Cullen’s soft kisses against her temple, Lydia lived. She lived and it didn’t occur to her how happy she was. She still lost the game though, but that didn’t matter as her coins all were sent straight to Josephine, who by the end of the first three rounds, had banked quite a sizable portion.

“I know the lady Ambassador’s tricks,” Cullen whispered to her, and when the game became a show off between the Commander and the Lady Ambassador, the entire tavern watched as every single article of clothing the Commander was wearing, which just so happened to be the entire set of armor he wore on any given day, went straight to Josephine.

“I tried to warn you Curly,” Varric said, laughing over his cards.

“It comes off!” Cole said, face white with shock. “I didn’t know it came off.”

“Yes Cole, it comes off,” Lydia assured.

“Right. You would know. Like how it comes off in the war room after a meeting.”

“How about we just pretend that was never said?” Lydia asked.

She was met with a collective chorus of shaking heads, and a firm and resounding, “ _No._ ”

Josephine did her best, but she couldn’t hide her self-satisfied smile. “Never bet against an Antivan, Commander,” she said.

“Oh Maker’s breath please don’t laugh Josephine…Rylen has everyone covered.”

What made Lydia break and begin to titter was when she glanced at Rylen, his face buried in Cassandra’s shoulder, as he tried his hardest to cover his loud chuckles. And what made her officially lose it was the sight of Josephine, standing with a grand flourish, taking Cullen’s confiscated mantle and throwing it around her shoulders. She stood tall and proud, too much like Cullen, her hand on an imaginary sword on her hip.

“Send our soldiers, blast it,” she said in a deeper voice, mocking Cullen’s accent. She had the entire room enraptured and snorting, all except the very one she was mimicking, as she pointed down at the table and pretended she was in the war room.

“Also,” she began. “If you squint, Lake Calenhad is shaped like a bunny.”

Tears sprung from Lydia’s eyes as she remembered one particular day in the war room, when they were all a little bored, and Cullen made that astute observation.  
“You would say that,” Dorian said, wiping tears from his eyes. “One time when we were outside playing chess, you said there was a cloud in the sky that looked like a bear.”

“It did look like a bear!” Cullen said, indignant. “It really did!”

Lydia kissed his cheek. “I am sure it did love, I am sure. Oh Cullen, darling, dear…don’t look so embarrassed!”

“I know what can help with that,” Bull said, slapping his hand on the table. “A drinking game!”

“Or dancing, Let’s all dance!” She turned round, to Maryden. “Empress of Fire!” she asked. “Maryden, can you sing Empress of Fire?”

The tune started, and Lydia tugged at Cullen’s shoulder. “Can I have my clothes back at least?” he asked, still blushing and red.

“I don’t know,” Lydia said. “I read that some Avvar tribes dance naked in front of the fire. Sounds fun.”

“He’d only do it in your room, alone.”

Lydia looked at Cole, and then Cullen, and then to everyone else, who were shaking their heads and snorting. “Well then…” she said, blinking and amused. “Now that everyone knows that…”

“Oh, don’t do it now!” Josephine said, tugging on Lydia’s shirt. “Let’s dance!”

“Can I please have my clothes back?” Cullen asked, very carefully avoiding everyone’s gaze.

“Cullen,” Rylen interjected, pointing at him. “You made a bet and you lost your clothes. Lose like the proper, dignified knight you are.”

Josephine fluffed up the mantle. “Do let me have this for the rest of the night,” she said.

Rolling his eyes, Cullen stood, covering up his bits as best as he could manage. “Fine,” he said. “I’ll go to my room and change. I hope Vivienne isn’t outside or she might—"

_“BITCH BALLS!”_

There were two reactions across the inner circle as they realized Sera had been under the table the whole time, passed out in a stupor, and had only awakened at the worst moment imaginable. As Cullen yelled “ _SERA_!” and as Sera yelled back “ _CULLY_!” there was seething, seething second hand embarrassment that she got the full frontal view of Cullen, buck ass naked with his hands barely covering him, and less tactfully, loud and uncontrollable laughter from the other side. Cassandra, Josephine, and Lydia felt Cullen and Sera’s second-hand embarrassment, while Dorian, Bull, Blackwall and Rylen laughed their asses off. And then, there was Sera, after her long moment of shock. Eventually, she joined in, falling over and toppling on the floor.

“Breeches! Breeches!” Sera exclaimed. “Give him back his breeches!”

“I don’t know where they went,” Josephine said, searching around her. “Oh…no.”

The breeches, for all intents and purposes, had disappeared. Sera shrieked, Rylen couldn’t stop laughing and poor Cassandra had her eyes covered, while everyone else looked for the breeches so poor Cullen could stop covering his cock. Finally, Lydia found them in the farthest corner, and her poor lover had to duck behind the staircase to slip them back on. Eventually Josephine took even more pity on him, and handed him back his shirt, as well as his boots, covering her eyes as she handed them to him. The mantle however, remained in her possession.

“Oh love,” Lydia said, helping him straighten out his shirt.

“Maker, I do not need help embarrassing myself in front of you.”

“Cullen you could never embarrass yourself in front of me, I love seeing you like this.”

“Naked? That’s good to know.”

She laughed. “Well, yes. Naked, but not so…uptight. Not that you are uptight most of the time, but…oh just kiss me!”

He kissed her and she returned it, and when they were laughing together it was Cullen and not Lydia that led her to the floor and began to sway with her to the last of “Empress of Fire.” They were not alone, Rylen was there, twirling Cassandra, the woman of roses and romance, the one who was having the time of her life. Bull and Dorian too danced, and though Dorian profusely tried to keep the secret of his relationship, for fear of what others would say, as he danced with Bull, it became clear that he cared not for the thoughts of others. Dorian saw only him. He was a man in love. And maybe, just maybe, he wanted everyone to know how much he loved.

The others watched and became swept and enraptured to the dancing. Cole grinned, cheeks flushed with color as Josephine clapped to the beat. Blackwall tapped his foot as Sera leaned against his shoulder, but it was Varric who watched most intently of all, his mind racing, committing this moment to memory so he may later write it down. He wrote the story of the night in his mind, as Lydia did writing of her own. In the whirl of the music, the dancing and the soft light of the tavern’s fire, she committed to memory the feel of Cullen’s arms, the way his scarred lips were set in an almost permanent, dreamy grin as they swayed, and the way his amber eyes never once lingered from her. Cullen was beautiful, radiant. Home.

And then, the song finished, and a new one began. “The Last Waltz” began.

The song was melancholy, and of regret. She danced with Cullen and danced with her family, and though the song brought back her regret, the regret she felt since Asher passed, she danced to the last waltz and thought of how Asher wanted her to be happy.

Happiness wasn’t something one could bring by just wishing. She knew that. But she was with her friends, her family, and the ones she loved. And when Varric raised a glass when the dance was done, toasting Asher, Lydia, still with her arm wrapped around Cullen, raised her tankard in turn.

“For Rhine,” she said. “Rhine Hawke, and Elaine. For everyone,” she said, and the whole tavern quieted, grew melancholier. But Lydia realized, that the happiest days of life, could also be the saddest. For in all reflections, there could be a little sorrow. Sorrow for the past, and what was lost.  
Hope for the future.

The dance was not over, when the music finished. Lydia, her forehead pressed against Cullen, thought of the poems he wanted to give her. They kissed briefly before ascending the stairs, walking in the moonlight back to his room. Up the ladder they went, and continuing their slow and practiced dance, Cullen led her to his bed.  
They had not made love since their making up, since they ingrained apologies and love onto their skins. But they made love that night, Lydia’s legs coiled around his waist as his hands kneaded down her back. She did the same, tugging at his hair, greedily wanting to hear him moan for her. Moonlight from his unfixed roof painted their bodies as she moved against him, held him, and told him she loved him. Cullen had been trying to write poems for her, but they wrote poems together as they made love. They danced together, in a way similar, but different from the way they did in the tavern.

“Sister Agnes was right,” Cullen said, as they both came, only moments apart. “How beautiful it is, to love and be loved.”

“She said that?” Lydia asked, still coiled around him.

“After she told me someday I would be happy, yes. And Maker. I am. I am happy. Happier than I was the first time I told you I was happier than I ever thought possible.”

Blissful in his arms, Lydia was happy too. Happy, and a little sad for what had happened, and those she had lost. But she selfishly, greedily took her one moment of happiness with Cullen. Perhaps though, she was not being selfish at all. Perhaps, because it was the real victory, after the fighting. For victory wasn’t winning, being the last one remaining. It was finding a life after, finding happiness after the sorrow, and the loss. For herself, for Asher who wanted that cottage by the sea…  
She found happiness, found that thread of hope that promised a life after. Or maybe she knew all along, and Cullen in her life, loving her, and finding a home in him made it all tangible. It was not forgetting what happened, or the people in her life, but learning. Loving, and living.

Moments, being in his arms, holding him after he came in her arms, they gave her glimpses of that life. How she held on to those moments, held onto him. How she would never let him go. What a beautiful future they would have. How beautiful would that victory be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well a year later, here we are <3 two chapters left :)


	49. Stars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is the penultimate chapter :)

Warmth like the light of a candlelit glow was her skin, soft against his rough palms. She was warm and beckoning underneath him, her arms and legs coiled around his waist, pressing his body into hers. Time did not slow during their night before, the night before the world would change, but in their lovemaking, they were unhurried and slow. She was neither the Herald, nor the Inquisitor, and though she looked as Cliodna looked in the book of stories his mother used to read to him, she was not Cliodna. She was Lydia. Radiant as the sun, beautiful as the sun and eventually the moon and stars that spilled from her open balcony. Radiant, beautiful, and brave Lydia. Once, he recalled, she said he was the one that was brave. But he found her the bravest of all.

He stopped counting the minutes in her arms, stopped trying to be anything other than what he was. He was frantic and desperate at first, too needy. He wanted every inch of her, immediately and all at once. He kept it out of his mind the entire day, that perhaps he could lose her, that she may not come back. At last, alone in her room and in her arms, together in their own little world, the thought came. If this truly could be the last time, if he would live the rest of his life without living in her sun…

A whisper of his name, a hand on his chest beckoned him: slow.

“Cullen,” she said, as his mantle fell to the floor, followed by his breast plate, followed by everything else, “slow.”

He was in her arms soon after, and they were stripped to the most basic parts of themselves in front of the open sky, in front of the evening sun. Cullen and Lydia. The whole world could murmur and whisper about how different they were, how uncommon. The sun knew they weren’t different at all. The sun, and then later the moon and stars, knew how he was only really Cullen, when he was with Lydia.

She sighed afterward when his beard tickled her stomach, his cheek against the slight plumpness. The unexpected sound delighted him. For as slow as their love was, every moment held a gravitas. He filled her, sank deep inside inch by inch as their hands interlocked together, and their eyes never once drifting away, save when they kissed. He lived a lifetime in her eyes. He committed every part of her to memory. Every sigh, every sharp intake of breath, every touch, he sealed within to remember.  
Her content sigh, her hand caressing his cheek, it brought him home.

“You’ve never lost your faith.”

The statement, said in the after of their coupling, surprised him a little. “I’m not sure of that,” he admitted, gliding across her body. “I may have. Once or twice at least.”

“But you always came back,” she said. “You always came back to your faith.”

It was a comfort, during the long nights he went without sleep in Kirkwall. It was a comfort to think there was a grand design somewhere, that perhaps the Maker had more for him. It was perhaps why he didn’t do something sooner, make his own life.

He knew better then. He knew to believe, have faith. Have faith, but act. Always, act.

“I saw Morrigan before you came to the chantry,” he said, his memories bringing him back to the more immediate.

“Did she have a sarcastic quip ready for you?” Lydia asked, a smile in her eyes.

“No,” Cullen said, chuckling as he remembered her earlier comment about griffons. “She only said that I should believe in you.”

“I know you do. I see it when you look at me, and…” she sighed, content as he gently kissed her neck and collar. “You believe in me. Even at the beginning, when I wasn’t sure if I believed in myself.”

His brows furrowed. “You didn’t believe?”

“I don’t think I did at first. Not when so much of my life was spent living the way I lived.”

“It wasn’t all me,” he said, for he knew, it was mostly her.

“I found freedom in so many different ways.” She stroked his cheek. “Someday, we’ll be free. I believe that.”

“What else do you believe in?”

“Living,” she said simply.

“And...?”

“This moment. Our freedom. You. Us.”

He wondered. She invoked the Maker, but she never spoke of Andraste, or if she was devout. “Do you believe in the Maker?” he asked.

She was silent for a moment, contemplating. “I wasn’t sure if I believed in Him,” she admitted. “Or any gods, really. I still don’t know, after what I’ve seen, strange as it may be. But feeling the way you make me feel? That’s given me more reason to believe, more than anything that’s happened. I cannot understand kneeling and praying to the Maker. But if it gives people hope, if it gives you hope, and if you still believe after all this time…I admire you. So much.”

“Come back to me.”

He didn’t plead to the Maker or Andraste. His plea was to her.

She closed her eyes. The confession came. “Cullen. I’m frightened.”

She rose a little, her eyes meeting his. They lived another lifetime in each other eyes. “Not of Corypheus,” she said. “He doesn’t frighten me. What frightens me if the thought of leaving you.”

A tear fell, and then another, Lydia wiped them away, kissed them as they fell from his cheeks.

“I didn’t want this to happen” he admitted of his tears, though that was pointless now. “I wanted to be happy tonight. I didn't want to see you off with any tears.”

Another kiss. “How long did you bottle up your emotions, Knight Captain Cullen? Cry. Cry for me.”

Then, she cried too. He couldn’t say whose tears he tasted. He could only say that some of the happiest times of his life, were also the saddest. He couldn’t say how it began again, only that he moved to his back, and Lydia moved atop him. He held her hips and he made her come against his fingers, then he kissed her neck as she moved her hips against him. Wandering hands caressed his back, stroked his hair. Hungry mouths, soft lips kissed shapes and plains. She still kissed away tears.

“Cullen. If anything happens to me, if—”

“No.”

“ _Cullen_.”

“ _No_.”

She sighed, momentarily stopping her ministrations. “I only wanted to say, that I want you to live. You must live, no matter what.”

“How can I live without my heart?”

“Cullen…” She closed her eyes, fell against him. “My love. My love.”

He pressed his forehead against hers as he came, fire coiling and warm. Their foreheads touched and he sighed, as if it could implore her to let her hear his thoughts, see the life he wanted with her. It was a beautiful life, with no fighting, the two of them building a home, and a family. Living.

“If you…”

“I would want you to live,” she said. “You must promise me you will.”

“You will come back. To believe anything else…I—” he buried his head against the crook of her neck. “Your life. It…it has never been fair to you, has it? You were taken away to the Circle so young. You came to the Conclave. After everything that happened, there’s a life after. There must be.”

“It’s with you. But if—”

“No Lydia, no. Please do not ask me this. I’ll give you anything, but I won’t…I can’t…”

“You’re so beautiful, when you’re happy.”

“You make me happy. I can’t be happy without—”

“Do you remember Cliodna and Conchobar?”

The story. The story his mother told him as a child, the story he told her, under the stars after Adamant.

“I remember,” he said. “I do.”

“What did Cliodna realize, when the Lady of the Skies asked her to look around?”

“Everywhere,” he said, closing his eyes, knowing. “He was everywhere.”

Their foreheads pressed together again. They were in the same world.

“No matter what happens to me,” Lydia whispered. “I am everywhere. I am the stars, I am the moon, and the sun, and fire and water. I’m in the garden with roses and jasmine.”

“You will always live,” he promised her. “I swear that no matter what happens, I will make sure they all know who you are.”

“I will always go on living, so long as there is fire in you. Part of me is you. Part of me will always be in you. Our souls, they’re made of the same star stuff. We are in the same constellation, you and I.”

They kissed, and when they kissed, they vowed they were the stars.

 

* * *

 

 

He saw her everywhere when he saw her off.

He was in the stables with her before she left to finish her journey, not wanting to pull away from her, but pulling away anyway. He held onto their final kiss. It remained on his lips and burned like an ember, and he saw the embers of her everywhere. He saw her in the garden, and in the sky. He saw her when he slept, or at least tried to sleep.

He closed his eyes at night and remembered her as she left. He couldn’t forget the look in her eyes as she and her companions left to meet their end. It was neither resignation nor a grim forbearance. It was an acceptance, but that word could not encompass the feel of their final kiss, the final squeeze of hand, and final time their foreheads touched before the end. It was a knowing that one part of her journey was ending, and soon she would be entering another part, another phase. Only this one, she would not follow a path or a plan that was pre-written for her. She would get to write her own story. He felt that pride, that bliss that he would be part of that story. He had only to wait, until she was in his arms again. Only then could he breathe again.

A life without breathing. It reminded him of when he was a boy, around eight years old, when Branson fell into the lake. Rosalie was frantic and inconsolable as Mia ran to get their father, and Cullen, panicked and helpless, watched Bran thrash around, his face white with fear. Soon after Cullen remembered what the knight captain in Honnleath, Ser Rylance, said about those who did things in adversary and those who didn’t. Thinking of that, and without thinking to go by the bank first and wad to Bran, Cullen jumped right into the water, forgetting he couldn’t swim. He must have only been underwater for thirty seconds, but in that time before his father saved both him and Bran, he had never been more frightened. Not until Kinloch. Not until he waited for Lydia.

He lived life underwater as he waited for Lydia, and it was worse than the time he jumped in the water to save Bran, worse than the cage at Kinloch. He couldn’t sleep, and during a meeting with Leliana as they positioned soldiers and scouts to deal with leftover demons and other red templars, she asked him if the reason why he was so pale was because he had neglected to eat. She promptly sent him to Emmaline, who filled him up with lamb and pea stew and bread. Rylen came to him later, and told him she would make it. He said she was tougher than any lass he knew, save Cassandra. Rylen comforted him and Leliana prayed, as did Josephine.

He paced the battlements often as he waited for reports and news, stopped at the place where they shared their first kiss. He waited for her. He waited, remaining underwater, not breathing and unable to feel the beating of his heart. And then one morning, when he was overwhelmed, he rose from his restless night, and tried to write a poem again. A poem of Cliodna, and Conchobhar, the stars and the sky. He wrote a poem of Lydia, and the life they would have together. He kept it close to his heart. And then he wandered to her garden before wandering to the chantry, and as he knelt before Andraste, saying a final prayer, he heard the footsteps of her approach.

He knew.

He knew it before he turned round, before Leliana’s face cracked into a broad grin. He knew before she nodded, before she said that Lydia and the Inner Circle, they were all coming home. They were all victorious.

He resurfaced from the water then, but he only breathed again, when she came home.

Josephine and Leliana and him, they all arranged it, for Lydia and her Inner Circle to arrive back to Skyhold to their entire Inquisition. She came back, and her happiness, her exuberance and elation became everything. He had never seen her so happy, as she looked to the crowd to her people and thanked them. Her eyes thanked every single one, for every single one had a hand in where she was. She never looked happier. Not until she met his eyes. Not until she reached the top of the balcony, and was in his arms again.

Before the sky and before the Inquisition, before Cliodna and Conchobar’s constellation, they were the stars. They were every person in the Inquisition. They were Cullen and Lydia.

“I’m home,” she whispered, so only he could hear. “I came home.”

“Look around.”

She looked to the sky, and to her people and family. She looked at the story she was apart of, the story she created, the one he was proud to be in, stand by her side in. She took his hand. They looked together. With open arms, they walked into their new journey. They walked joyously into their new story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the final installment will be out very very soon. It's a little bittersweet to say the least, and I may get mushy in the last part, but I once again wanted to thank everyone :)


	50. Unwritten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is the end. Once again, thank you so much for your endless support.

When Lydia was a child, her mother used to tell her that their garden was their own little world, known only to the two of them. The sweet smell of the jasmine and roses then, became so engrained with memories of her mother, that the smells and the flowers in their beautiful garden all became a safe haven. In many ways, Lydia’s garden, which lived in its own little world apart from the rest of Skyhold, was a tribute to her childhood happiness. The garden, with it’s jasmine that wrapped around the pillars and parapets, and expansive rose garden, was all for her mother.

Lydia stowed away from the Inquisition’s celebration, to her garden to make a bouquet of roses and jasmine, and to be alone in her mother’s garden. She held the bouquet, breathing in the sweet smell of the flowers.

“We did it,” she whispered, looking to the night sky, where she saw her mother. She saw her in the sky, and the stars. She saw her everywhere.

“We did it Mama,” she said again, and how she wished with all her heart, that she could be there. How greatly Lydia wanted to tell her, that she was right, that the strength to overcome was always there inside her. Lydia wanted to tell her mother she was the first person that ever believed in her.

“No. It was all you.”

Lydia should have known Morrigan would have been in the garden, watching. Morrigan was always one that watched.

Still, Lydia maintained her words. “No,” she said. “I was one piece to the puzzle. It was all of us. Including you.”

“I merely did what was asked of me, Inquisitor,” Morrigan said, though there was that hint of a gracious smile. “But now that my services are no longer required, Kieran and I will not take advantage of your hospitality anymore.”

“There is no need to leave,” Lydia said. “Stay as long as you like.”

“Tis best for both of us if we no longer remained. There is…much to learn and find out.”

Lydia nodded. She could understand that.

There was one more thing to be done, however. Dashing to meet Morrigan before she disappeared, Lydia caught up with her. “Here,” she said, taking her bouquet and handing it to her. “It’s small, I know, but my mother once told me that you should never send anyone off without a favor or token. She also had an appreciation for roses, and jasmine. As I have now. So here. Take these. I insist.”

With both hands, Morrigan took the bouquet, inhaled the scent. For the first time, Lydia saw her without words.

“I…I have been given one other gift before, Inquisitor. A mirror, from an old friend. Well…more like a sister, perhaps.”

“Miranda?”

Slowly, Morrigan nodded. “Yes. Mira.”

For a moment, Morrigan lived in the past. The past was beautiful, Lydia had to admit. It was the future though, she looked forward to the most.

“I must thank you as well, Lady Morrigan.”

She snapped back to the present as Cullen emerged from the grand hall, gravitating toward Lydia. His nearness set her aflame. After all this time, his presence was fire. His hand pulling her into his frame with the practice of a thousand years, was home.

“What for, I wonder?” Morrigan asked, her signature coyness resurfacing.

Cullen smirked. “You may know.”

It was dark out, with only the soft glow of the torches around the garden, but Lydia swore Morrigan smiled again, before departing. And then Lydia was alone with the man she loved.

“I thought you disappeared here,” he said. “I had Josephine deter others from coming to find you. But I…” He pulled her in closer, making her giggle. “I thought I might claim more of your attention after all.”

“Claim more of me,” she muttered, wrapping her arms around him. “All of me.”

He bit his lip as he took a deep breath. She could see the wheels turning in his head, the plans he made.

“Lydia, love,” he muttered in his honeyed voice she loved so much. “Goddess among women, empress of my heart…”

“Cullen dearest,” she offered in return. “Commander of my bed…my loins, and— _oh._ _Maker_. That was terrible. I really did say that, didn’t I?”

His eyes crinkled as he smiled. “You said that, yes.”

They laughed together, because yes, she really did say that. Perhaps too preposterous, too ridiculous to be believed or to be written down, but their relationship and the secrets they shared together was for no one else but them. Maker help her, she loved that man, couldn’t wait to live her life, making more secrets with him. More secrets, more stories together, all getting to truly begin.

But there was one more chapter to their current one. One, there in her garden, that she wanted to savor.

The garden was always a place of love and reflection.

“You seem to be thinking about something,” Cullen noted, his hands migrating down, grasping her hips.

She couldn’t help but move them a little against him. “I was thinking about stories,” She said, her hands in his mantle. “Well, my story, I suppose. See, my mother used to say that gardens were places of reflection, and love.”

“Your mother was a remarkable woman.”

“She was,” Lydia said, reminiscing. “I miss her. I wish she was here. I wish she could have fulfilled her promise to me, about us, meeting again.”

“Oh, love…”

Tenderly, she kissed the corner of his mouth. “It’s all right. I fulfilled my promise to her.”

“Are you happy, my love?”

“More than I have ever been.”

They kissed some more. So many kisses before, so many to come. She would savor them all. Savor him.

She had an idea.

Taking his hand, she implored him to follow her. “Come with me,” she said. “We’re going to our secret place.”

“What shall we do there?”

“Dance, of course.”

Dance they did, under the moon, to a song that was all their own. It was a song of their love, born from the ashes of war. Tested by their own selves, but they had found summer in their winter and knew that if winter remained, they could always dance in the snow. It was a journey similar to many others, as she learned and he learned that they loved each other for who they really were, and not the image of each other they created. But it was so wonderfully theirs. It was their story. That was why she loved it.

When they kissed again in their secret place, it was slow and soft, and it promised another dance. Dance they did again, when at last they stowed away to her room. It was a dance of worship and need, neither slow nor fast. It was blissful, a music known only to the two of them. He did not make love to her like it was their last night on earth, but rather he made love in such a way that promised a beginning. His lips were everywhere, hands were gentle. Sometimes when he made love she wanted him rough, wanted him to know she was not a delicate flower that would not break. On that night, their bodies attuned, he knew to worship and kiss everywhere. Spend forever in making her feel beautiful.

The hands on her body were hands that had lived and survived. Those were the only hands she would ever want on her body. They were reverent palms, strong with long digits that drew an end from her core, pulling an unwinding and making it last. Sweeter was it, to have it accompanied by his kiss and his breathy moans, reminding her she was loved. She took his hands, kissed his scarred wrist. Wrapped her lips around each digit, sliding them inside her warm mouth. She moaned at the salty taste of herself, let go, an pleaded, more.

He kissed her once more, on her lips, then her neck. He kissed the soft swell of her belly. He gave her his mouth, slow and reverent as ever, cupping her hips and grasping her sinewy legs. He became greedy, his tongue making pathways, lapping up her wetness. She wanted him that way, wanted him to be unabashed, and full of wonder, and when he stopped momentarily to kiss her inner thighs, his mouth and cheeks were wet against her skin. Her arousal was everywhere, his face, the sheets, her thighs and his fingers that slide and out of her, and she saw a starry sky as she came. She came both hard and soft and perfect, with her leg draped against his back and her hand in his. He kissed her palm as she recovered, and the tops of her hand. His eyes were carnal yet soft. Wondrous. It was almost too much, almost overwhelming to look at him. She was so in love.

He made her feel beautiful. Her desire was always to make him feel wanted and needed, radiant even, and the night of her homecoming, it was even more so. She laid him down, and her mouth ardently kissed every scar on his body. Scars that were long since healed, she healed again with her lips. She hated the chantry for teaching him he was only a vessel to maim and stand in protection, so she sought to make him remember he was a man that deserved to be happy, and loved. He deserved to know he was radiant. He had been believing, before her. He was finally starting to know.

She climbed astride him. He held her hips for balance. He filled and stretched her, and she reminded him that she had come home to him. They made a love that night that promised a thousand more times.

She drifted to kiss him, her hand caressing his cheek. She stopped.

“You’re trembling,” she realized.

He tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “Am I?”

“Should we stop?”

“No. I…oh…”

Their foreheads touched. Another reminder she gave, another, I am here, and I will not leave.

“I suppose for a moment, I thought that maybe this wasn’t real,” he muttered.

“I am here,” she promised, taking his hand, allowing him to feel her beating heart. “I’m with you now.”

“Sun, and moon. Stars and sky...”

“Fire and water,” she muttered.

“My hero.”

“As you are mine.”

She moved her hips and they came together. They felt anew.

 

* * *

 

 

Dawn awakened her. Dawn, sun, and Cullen’s soft murmuring to himself.

Still groggy from sleep, she propped her head in her hands. Cullen was turned away from her, his ropey back facing her. The temptation was too much. She rose and wrapped her arms around him, nestling her chin against his shoulder. He had a paper in one hand, and a quill in the other.

“Lydia!” he exclaimed, quickly turning the paper around. “I thought you would still be asleep.”

“I could say the same about you,” she fired back, giggling as they remained cheek to cheek. “Did you sleep at all?”

“A little. But then Josephine knocked on the door and brought us some breakfast that Emmaline made, and then I couldn’t fall back asleep, so…”

“Wait, why not?”

“You’re here,” he said simply, his hand reaching around, cupping her cheek in his palm. “After a while I think I finally believed it.”

Tenderly she kissed his temple, and he turned around, the quill and paper dropping to the floor. He made her laugh as his beard tickled her neck and shoulders, hands playfully pinching her till she felt him against her, and though he was clothed, he was hard and erect. It made her laugh even more.

“Hmm, at this point, we’ll never get out of bed,” she said. Not that she minded, not one bit. “What will everyone say?”

“They’re letting us stay in.”

She could hardly believe it. “How did you ever manage it?”

“I didn’t. It was all Josephine. She thought we wouldn’t want to leave. That’s why she brought us breakfast. But there was something else.”

“Cullen…” she whined, reaching for him as he rose from the bed. Though he held onto her hand as long as he could, she stammered that he had to get back, or else he would feel her wrath. When that was no use, she reached for his discarded tunic on the floor and put it on.

“We have a few things we need to discuss,” she said in her best authoritarian voice, coming over to him with her hands on her hips.

“There’s something I want to show you!” he exclaimed, picking up something on her desk. “Something that arrived today.”

She met him halfway there. It was a letter, in his hands. But there wasn’t one letter, there were several, and when she turned, peered to her desk, she saw that there was an entire basket full.

“Open it,” Cullen said, motioning to the one in her hand. “Read it.”

She undid the seal. Dear Lydia, it said.

Cullen was beaming. “Go on,” he beckoned. “Please.”

“Dear Lydia,” she read aloud. “I hope this finds you alright. And—”

She forgot to breathe.

It was impossible. She couldn’t believe it, but…

But she was foolish to not believe in miracles anymore.

“They came this morning,” Cullen explained, coming closer, putting his arm around her. “Your father sent them.”

She scanned the letter, the sweet words written. _My darling girl, I miss you. The garden is beautiful this time, but I miss your laughter in it. Someday soon, I promise, I will see you, if your father will ever stop being so stubborn. I promise you, someday he will understand. He will come round. He loved you, and I love you, my Lydia._

“She loved me,” Lydia said, looking up from the letter. “Cullen. She didn’t want to break her promise.”

“How could she ever?”

She set the letter down, with all the others. She could catch up later, when skies were grey. Knowing. It was already so much, more than she ever thought.

But Lydia realized she already knew.

“I couldn’t believe it, when Josephine sent them,” Cullen said. “I remember what you said, last night. Oh Lydia, does it make you happy?”

“Yes,” she said, beaming and at peace. “Yes.”

“Lydia…”

He embraced her. She thought of the past again, but only briefly. Something else was taking precedence.

“My past is part of me, and my life before,” Lydia said. “Oh Cullen, I used to live so much in the past. But the future, Cullen…the future! Thinking of that now…that’s what makes me happier.”

She set the letter down. They embraced again, and kissed by the early morning light. Kissed and made secrets, and spoke of their future.

They shared more kisses, and before anything else could occur, she stopped for a moment, as she remembered how she found him, sitting at the edge of the bed with a paper and quill. “So. What was that paper you had in your hand?” she asked.

“Oh, that. Uh…”

It hit. “Wait, was that your…poem you spoke of?”

He turned a little red. “It may have been an attempt at one.”

“Can I read it?”

“Oh please, no. Not yet anyway.”

“Cullen. I’m sure I’ll love it no matter what.”

It took another kiss, and then another, but on the third he chuckled, and said he would read it to her. “Please keep in mind I am not a writer,” he said. “Unlike our friend Varric.”  
She plopped on the bed and got comfortable. “Why wouldn’t I love it? You wrote it from your heart, didn’t you?”

“Well yes, but—”

“It will be wonderful. Trust me."

He smirked, clearing his throat before lifting the paper with a grand flourish. “It was dark when you brought the sun. But you kissed me and made me remember there was light before, but also light after. I fight for us, and our home. You kiss me, and…uh…”

He set the poem down, sheepishly, rubbed his neck. “Well. I’m afraid that’s all I have at the moment. Rylen suggested something saucier, but I wanted to keep it lighter. I can finish it later, maybe? Oh…” his face fell. “Please, please tell me you thought it was at least acceptable.”

“Cullen!” Lydia exclaimed, as dreamily, she held out her hand out for him to take. “I love it. I do. Truly. No one has ever written me a poem before.”

“Many people will after today,” Cullen said, giving her hand. “People will forever speak of your mark, and your Inquisition, and how you overcame. And you know what they’ll write? They’ll say you brought the dawn.”

She brought the dawn. Lovely poetry already, she thought. “But I won’t love their words the way I love yours,” she said. “I’ll never love anyone, the way I love you.”

“No,” he said, softly, gently. “I want you to love. You have so much love.”

“But—”

“Just promise me you won’t love anyone the same way as me. That’s enough.”

“Cullen. You aren’t enough. You are everything and more.”

There was light in his eyes. “As are you. You are more than enough. You are…more than I could have hoped. And I don’t care about anything other than you being alive.”

He kissed her hand. He told her, that her love, he saw it everywhere.

“The garden, the sky and stars,” he mused. “You are everywhere.”

“Our love is everywhere. We are everywhere,” she said, and he knew, she was right.

Dawn spilled through the windows. Lydia rose, leading him to the balcony, to the outside. Cullen pulled her into his frame, his arms around her waist. And when he sighed, pressing his lips to that place between her neck and shoulder, she knew where she was. Here, and there, with Cullen.

The sky with its constellations was their past and their future, great and expansive, and it held her mother, and Asher, and the others she had lost but did not truly lose, because they too, were everywhere. They would always be everywhere as she and Cullen continued to sail. Not toward the past, but onward. They would sail home.

The dawn and its sun that they would soar through was welcoming. It showed her everything that was unwritten, as she stood at the beginning again. She didn’t know before, how there was so much beauty in the unwritten.

“I don’t know what happens after this,” he said to her.

“I don’t know either,” she admitted. “But I think that’s why I like it.”

He was safe. He was protecting, yet proud. Wonderfully quiet, and strong. He was stronger, when he held her.

“I love you,” he whispered into her ear.

He held, and he loved. She loved in return. She told him so. She loved, and just as he had poems, she had a thousand poems of her own she could write, poems that told him every which way her love grew as the days wore on. But at the beginning again, she left them unwritten. For now.

The dawn beckoned the beginning.

“Cullen,” Lydia said, pointing to the mountains and the sky, to where they were sailing home, “Cullen…look!”

He looked. They sailed. And Lydia showed Cullen their beautiful beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a little sad to be at the end. I would like to thank everyone who ever left a comment or kudos, because you guys really made me want to continue and gave me inspiration when it may have otherwise died. Special thanks to @lyriumyue, who helped me when I hit some crossroads and provided some great insight. 
> 
> Also, the story is concluded, for now...buuuuttttttt there might be some things left unwritten yet. Stay tuned :)

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr! https://a-shakespearean-in-paris.tumblr.com/


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